


'Neath Arabian Moons

by DankSide_ofTheMoon



Category: Aladdin (1992), Aladdin (2019)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Everything Makes More Sense, F/M, How a villain's made, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, M/M tag is implied or up to interpretation, More Hurt Than Comfort, Politics, Slow Burn, The Prequel You Wish You Had, This Is Not Going To Go The Way You Think, Tragic Romance, Twins, basically a book
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2020-07-08 02:17:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19861885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DankSide_ofTheMoon/pseuds/DankSide_ofTheMoon
Summary: Nasira’s features were etched in elegance. A gracefully high forehead and set of pronounced cheekbones that complemented her deeply set eyes and arched brows were what stood out to Sadira. Bearing a Romanesque nose, hair shades darker than her own and a dancer’s body, Nasira reminded her of a painting in the halls of Quataru that depicted All-at, goddess of the moon.The brother was, objectively, just as handsome. Jafar’s wavy, dark hair - even with it pulled back - and knife-edge cheekbones were practically a copy of her sister’s, but the resemblance ends about there. Tan skin, a straight clean-cut nose, and acute jaw line brought forth an attraction to him. Meanwhile his hooded ebony eyes, haughty brows and thin, defined lips gave Sadira the impression of a dangerous self that lurked behind those polite words and courteous manners. Jafar had something to him that spoke of a fatal allure - much like the beauty that you would expect in poisonous animals of nature.Despite lacking in either crown or throne, she now had an idea of who really ruled the country.





	1. The Sultana

The desert sands swirled ferociously – kicking up plumes of dust that danced at the tempo of the howling wind. The tinkling of caravans broke through the solemn silence – ringing over the city of Agrabah. Were any foreign traveler to have closed their eyes and awakened their senses, no doubt would they have felt as that of one submerged in a dream-like state. If said traveler would have opened their eyes again, the sight of the city shrouded beneath the crystalline night sky - rejoicing - would’ve brought them to gaze ahead in awe.

  
A magnificent mirage of fiery shimmers deriving from the passing lamps and raging torches - upheld by parades of dancing men and women - painted the city’s crookedly tall buildings in a golden haze. Not to mention the ravishing music – as transgressed by the beating of drums and chorus of kazoos whilst partner to an alluring symphony of voices and swift tapping of feet against the cool cobblestone –leaving every heart within Agrabah pumping as one in exhilaration. Children weaved between their parent’s legs; brandished brooms against one another, played with wooden horses and climbed the rickety roofs of nearby shops as merchants screamed at thousands of conceivable customers in the hopes of making some coin on the mud-caked streets.

However, nothing felt as magnificent as the enchanting carriages as they rolled by on gold-plated wheels; hanging with glistening jewels and burdened with exotic gifts to flow through the gates of that golden city. Hundreds and hundreds could be seen that night - all treading light-heartedly towards the Sultan’s towering palace that stood cast in an undoubtedly beautiful, crimson hue before the dying rays of the setting sun – bearing witness to the celebrations ahead.

  
Within this palace, one could both see and hear the clambering of servants speeding at break-neck speed. Less bearable was the condition as well – bodies sweeping to and fro: preparing for the unforgettable feast and the ceremonious setting, managing the music and escorting the esteemed who have arrived early. The quick padding of shoes and frantic shouting sliced through the stuffy space as hundreds of chimney sweeps, cooks, butlers, maids and servants hustled around madly. Sentries clade in leather and steel patrolled the watchtowers and walls and were situated all around the outer and inner courtyards - most of which congregated at the gates.

  
Meanwhile, palace guards made their rounds along the halls - donned in an alloy armor and shrouded with flaxen cloaks of gold, grey and azul. But all had a purpose – a place. In this environment, one could - contradictorily enough – find that the palace was in a state of organized chaos.

  
Leaning back with a hand on her forehead and a cup of red tea balanced gingerly in her lap, Nasira watched with growing irritation at the ripples forming in the sweet liquid with every clatter and clash that resounded through the palace. She had long abandoned trying to read through the pages of plans on the newest construction of the aqueducts lay discarded on a nearby tabletop.

  
As High Lady of Court, Nasira had the pleasure of being responsible for providing her people with the best life. But, while her fellow women continued to caw for the lowering of taxes and better rations to the apothecaries and medical practitioners, she wanted something more. Nasira was tired of always fixing the system when a part of her begged to build on it - strengthen it.

  
In a way, she has; with the establishment of more scholarly buildings, construction of ports across the channel and now - the aqueduct that will bring rich harvests, clean water, new cities and life to the outskirts of Agrabah. The nearly completed designs now rest by her side; waiting for the approval of a certain Sultan…

  
Another tumult of shouts and scrape of table legs being pushed against marble utterly broke apart her train of thought. It’s just a wedding - she thought, un-gritting her teeth before letting out a low sigh of defeat. Setting the cup on the ornate tabletop beside her, Nasira bounced up from the lounge and crossed over the rich arabian carpet towards the vanity paired with an ancient wardrobe. Upon reaching the drawers and grabbing a comb, she set to work on the tangles of inky, shimmering hair that fell across her shoulders and down her back.

  
Her hair wasn’t especially thick but it was nothing if not plentiful and... long. So as she pulled her way through the strands, Nasira had the time to consider a few points of wedding etiquette. She knew that there was always a way and a need to present yourself that way; even if looking pretty had nothing to do with how well-versed one is at negotiating trade deals. But prestige and power undoubtedly plays a part in appearance, she reflected as she brought out her mahogany eyes with sharp, smoky lines of kohl - or was it the other way around? Didn’t matter; the blood-red lipstick she wears ought to be a potent enough substitute should her words temporarily fail her tonight.  
It is with this thought in mind that Nasira brought a shimmering powder to her face and a perfume that reminded her of the fresh arabian sea breeze to her neck and wrists. Staring at her reflection for a moment in the gilded mirror, Nasira couldn’t help but feel a slight thrill. As her gaze slid over the heart-shaped face, ruby lips, sandy-tan skin, crescent eyebrows and the almond eyes beneath topped by fluttering lashes - her expression curled into a smile.

  
She was beautiful. She felt beautiful. The pain of enduring the servant’s clamor and the absurdity of the tradition began to fade; replaced by a notion of satisfaction and a straighter posture.

  
Striding to her wardrobe and throwing it open, Nasira then glanced at the limited number of gowns she had not yet worn. It wasn’t much. She was sifting through the clothing when a particular byzantium gown caught her eye. Double layered in chiffon and silk, she raised it off the hanger. The cut gave it a long sleeve on the left shoulder while baring the right. It met in the middle with a sweetheart neckline and collected on the floor in a cool, refreshing pool of deep purple. It was entrancing, unique and just… perfect.  
Throwing it over herself, Nasira felt as if she had stepped into a better fitted and more exquisite version of her skin. Twirling lightly and dipping down in a mock curtsy, she nearly missed the sound of footsteps on marble, padding in haste towards the double doors of her room. Nasira had just enough time to smooth down her dress before a restrained knock struck on the door; the swing of the hinges; and the mouse-like face of Hazita, her chambermaid, appeared before her.

  
Nasira took in a sharp breath: “Yes?”

  
“M’lady! Oh - I must apologize for keeping you waiting… I got caught up with, ah -it doesn’t matter. Come, come… We haven’t much time and there’s still things to be done before you go greet the guests-!”

  
Nasira winced internally at the way the young girl’s voice peaked in pitch towards the end of her announcement. She felt herself being ushered to a nearby chair even as Hazita spoke, and before she even sat down, deft fingers were already pulling and rearranging strands of her hair. Drawers flew open while pins and head pieces were unearthed inhumanly fast. Within minutes, Nasira’s raven locks were, well, locked in a beautiful, partial updo and she was being pushed up again - and then out her own doors by the maid.

  
“Alright, my work here is done. Your brother says that he’ll be waiting for you in the west wing. Now - go, go, go, m’lady!”

  
Deciding that this really was happening, Nasira managed to call back an earnest thanks while giving Hazita a smile that was now only half-feigned in enthusiasm - noting the faint blush that’ve always crept into her cheeks always so easily. Before the girl could let out more words of hurry, Nasira let her instincts take her through the doors and whatever awaited down the hall.

\---

Merdon honestly couldn’t have been luckier than this. Who knew an apple core, two barrels of wine and some unsupervised laundry could get him this far? But if he had to tell the tale, he supposed he must also throw in some of his own resourcefulness as credit. By Allah, a lowly vagabond pickpocket such as himself ought to deserve as much.  
He had originally snatched the juicy red fruit off an unsuspecting merchant in the marketplace. Now, he stationed himself near the palace gates to enjoy his bounty. It was a good place to satisfy one’s gaze as he looked on with curiosity- yet also hunger - at the large caravans overflowing with jewels, food, clothing and other eccentricities entering the Sultan’s home. Fat lords with even fatter coin purses from every corner of the deserts jingled at the head of the caravans; their riches singing a siren’s song to the thief. Lust and wonder eventually soured to annoyance and anger, however - for even the humblest of them all will be pressed to prolongedly behold a treasure that they may never even dream of possessing. And Merdon was, he admits quietly, definitely not the humblest of them all.

  
The apple was all gone by the time its counterpart in the sky had fallen beneath the horizon - bringing the beginning of dusk. Chucking the core to the ground next to him in exasperation, Merdon examined the laces of sandals intently.

  
His studies came to a halt only when a sudden flash of something made of fur raced across the corner of his vision. Snapping his head up, he was just able to make out the shape of a four-legged animal racing into the shadows, and if he had to guess, it had to have been either a cat or a very small dog. Rising from the empty crates he had occupied for the past hour, Merdon decided to follow this little creature scampering before him.

  
Turning the corner, he managed to wedge himself between the bramble and dry bushes that separated the palace walls from the short buildings that dotted its sides; squeezing himself forward until the bushes widened into a clear alleyway. The dog-cat had long disappeared but Merdon’s curiosity has only peaked at this newfound territory.

  
Reaching out to brush a hand along the wall, the thief was fairly surprised to find that portions of it weren’t as flat it had looked from afar. In fact, it was quite obvious in its protrusions and ridges; almost such as a cliff face or mountain side. A bit more than thrice his height was this wall, and before he could ask himself why, Merdon had placed his hand and feet into the structure; clambering upwards with all the ease of any street urchin.

  
It was at the top which he noticed that getting down was a whole other problem. The surface of the wall on the outside was rough and aiding enough. Yet when he dared to cross the short distance of the structure and run a hand down the other side, Merdon’s palm came in contact with the most polished and sanded equivalent of the former surface he had just asconded. Indeed, if he were to drop from this height on the other side, he certainly might be charged the price of a broken ankle.

  
Pacing back and forth across the wall, Merdon peered into the darkness and, to his great alarm, a sentrie’s light could be seen faintly in the distance. Still too far for Merdon to know in which direction the guard is heading and unwilling to find out, he made a decision. He had already committed himself to moving forth in this situation. There was no other way, in his mind. Swinging himself off the smooth side until he was only holding onto the precipice with his hands, he tightened his shoulders before letting go - doing his best to find friction against the surface and bracing his feet against impact.

  
The fall came to a surprisingly fast stop. And hey - his legs aren’t broken; but nor was he standing on the ground, really. Crouching on instinct, he stared for a second at the material beneath his feet. His fingers tips brushed against a circular plank of wood - lid-like. Jumping off his unlikely savior, Merdon bowed theatrically to the barrel labeled “Red Wine of the Arbor - Agrabah” before whirling on his heels.

  
The space between the outer wall (for that’s what he’s just crossed) and the inner wall (the monstrosity that now extends upward to around 30 feet in height) is, to him, unnecessarily large. Glancing to the left, he sees the wall curve - yet a torch stationed against it did not fail to illuminate an iron gate imbedded against the side of the wall. It was, by the sheer luck of Merdon and the blessing of whatever god is smiling on him tonight, propped open by another barrel of wine. Prancing over to the passage, the young man only stopped to salute his inanimate gatekeeper before entering into the courtyard.

  
His feet had not brought him half a yard within the palace grounds when the sweet aroma of something roasting, broiling and sauteing enclosed Merdon’s senses in a warm embrace. With the growling in his stomach as his guide, he followed the scent of the feast along the white and gold bricks until the side of the glorious fortress fell away and a set of wooden doors enforced by iron opened widely; as welcoming as any Merdon has seen. Voices of chefs and waiters, cooks and cleaners built and died - rolling over his ears in waves. His eyes scanned the section of the courtyard before him of their own accord; taking note of the surrounding crates containing fresh vegetables, a few legs of lamb smoked, salted and hung to dry, pots and pans, burlap sacks of compost that made itself known through scent and… a basket of some palace servant’s laundry; ripe for reaping.

  
Merdon had never really been one to question fate - and he sure wasn’t questioning it tonight. However, he had been staring incredulously at the pile of goods as any rich man would stare at a handsome estate before snapping out of his trance by the ever-persistent hunger gnawing at him. Murmuring a sincere prayer of thanks, Merdon tore into the basket of clothing and concealed his own in the pocket of the newfound apron. And if anyone found a leg of lamb missing from its post, what business was it of his as he slipped through the doors into the heart of the palace…?

\---

It truly didn’t take Nasira long to find her brother. Crowded though it was - the Grand Vizier of Agrabah never failed to make himself seen should he want to. He was clad in a highly adorned outer coat that cut itself off at the shoulders and flowed just to his thigh in a swirl of black outlined by gold. Taking a few steps forth, Nasira could make out the simplicity of maroon silk that served as the shirt beneath and the form-fitting leather that ended in polished boots; enough, she admitted, to balance out that outrageously fancy coat she swore that she had most certainly never seen him wear until this point.

  
Though making her way to him was a lot more difficult. Indeed, she had the occasion of seeing him greet three lords and a lady before finally escaping the embrace of some wealthy merchant interested in trades with the kingdom; to find Jafar somehow engaged in a conversation with Razoul - the commanding guard of the palace force - when she did arrive.

  
“We’ve got all the perimeters covered and secure. No need to worry, Sire,” he confirmed in that gravely, self-assured tone of his.

Nasira watched in amusement as her brother practically preened at the title that was normally reserved for just the Sultan. Even if Razoul was too dull to know that, it was still quite a pleasing mistake for anyone with an imagination and as much ambition as someone like her twin.

  
“I see,” Jafar nodded, his eyes jumping to Nasira before him. Clearing his throat, he addressed Razoul again, voice dipping slightly: “Well, that is good to hear. I trust that you’ll be able to handle the crowds as well?”

  
“Without a doubt. Should I have the invite reports delivered to the office by dawn?”

  
Another glance at Nasira gave insight to her impatience.

  
“No; that’s fine. Just hand it over to the scribes and their traverse archives as usual. Much thanks, Razoul.”

  
A deep bow and the man seemed to melt back into the crowd - such as he was never there. Squeezing past a few more robed bodies, Nasira finally managed to take his place.

  
“Well, sweet sister - glad you decided to make it after all.” His dark eyes twinkling with a hint of something she couldn’t quite identify as he shifted to lean slightly on the column behind him; all the previous air of authority considerably diluted and replaced by nonchalance.

  
“Ah yes - well, I wasn’t just going to sit around and not attend the reason for my headache all day - dear brother,” she shot back - letting a sarcastic, cat-like grin bloom across her face. Before Nasira could hear whatever retort Jaffy should come up with, she looped the crook of his arm in her own and set the pace towards the throne room.

“Fair enough. But it’ll all be worth it, ‘Sira. Besides, how many royal weddings have either of us attended?”

  
“As of tonight? Too many. And I’m sure I’m not the only one utterly dreading this. What woman, much less one of Quataru, would want to be married off to such a witless oaf - Sultan or not?” She muttered to her brother in their mother tongue. The halls have ears after all; with more than five hundred, tonight.

  
“This wasn’t my idea either. Arranged marriages aren’t so effective in the long run - for either parties,” he replied in persian, albeit a bit exasperated. They were quite close to the oak doors of the main hall now and if Nasira found that giving step was easier with her brother by her side (so perhaps the crowd parted like waves on a ship, fine), she made no comment. Rounding a corner, her eyes were caught by a glint of gold clipping together the bun of dark hair sitting at the nape of her brother’s neck - pulled back neatly and glimmering brighter than she would expect of metal.

  
Nasira smiled. Jafar had chosen garbs and a style that was just bold enough to elicit a symbol of uniqueness - giving him a greater air of reserve, and in turn, status that stood apart from the wild hair and flowing robes of those around them. All here were dressed to impress; every ring rang of riches while only the most exotic wealth were displayed. A speech spoken without words; a point made sans a blade.

  
Glancing around, Nasira was torn between scoffing at the entire display and showing the lordly fools waddling around them how it’s done herself. Not that she felt so strong an urge either way; like most who seemed so eager to be a part of this frivolous fashion one-upping. Bitterly, she couldn’t help but wonder what the bride would look like; other than a woman feigning happiness.

  
And so Nasira’s mind ran as quick as the sound of their footsteps; thoughts bouncing one after the other as they tread closer to the beginning of a royal union. Only when they finally saw the throne room open before them did Nasira’s thoughts come to a rest; crossing through the gilded, tawny entrance to the throne room beyond.

\---

Sadira didn’t understand; or perhaps she didn’t want to understand. But when she did chance a peek through the curtains lining the hall beside the thrones; forget understanding. She could hardly breathe.

  
The chamber ahead was full - as in elbow-to-elbow. Not-so-quiet murmurs of general excitement became as sharp as the gritting of metal to her ears. The ceiling, despite holding half a dozen chandeliers, seemed almost too low. Above all - overlaying the sounds of cheers and breath-holding conversation - was the dull pounding of blood through her ears.

  
Stepping back in desperation from the curtains, she nearly tripped over a handmaid rushing along with a basket of roses in her arms. Cheeping out a quick apology, the maid ducked into a nearby dressing without another glance. Sadira froze for a moment before letting her shoulders fall in a sigh. The fear that pervaded her mind slowly sank to the bottom of her stomach. She held onto it, turned it in her mind; cultivating it into a flicker of anger. Rightful anger.

  
It wasn’t fair; and an overwhelming urge to scream for all the crowds to disperse flooded Sadira’s aching heart without warning. In the end, she made do with clenching the teal and gold fabric in her hands. Satin, silk, chiffon - she thought in an attempt to settle her senses. She pushed her ribcage against the ornamental metal brace of a belt cinching her waist to draw in breath after calming breath. If her hair had been free from the dark, elaborate coils atop her head and the ring of a crown already atop her head, she would likely have tugged at the strands as well.

  
She was to wed the Sultan of Agrabah; a man that she hasn’t even spoken to. It was to be a marriage solely for duty- nothing else. She was to be a Sultana; a figurehead of power - demoted to merely a symbol of history void of all opinion.

  
Not that anyone would understand, Sadira believed - and therein lies her anger. It was bad enough on its own without the excited murmurs beyond those accursed curtains. Who are they to deserve a glance at her suffering? Who are they to tell her that she should be happy with what they placed upon her - that she should love the chains that hold her? That there is no other way? Her mind swirled and a morbid idea jumped at her but was quickly dismissed. For even acting as a Sultana with the Sultan’s approval, it’s unlikely that her soon-to-be husband would let her execute the ones who proposed their union in the first place.

  
“M’lady...! Or maybe ‘Your Highness’, now? Hmm - but I do like ‘Your Grace’ better… Ah - curse it. ‘My dear’ should do just fine; though it is your choice.”

  
Sadira turned instinctively at the familiar, sing-song voice. Gray-haired pulled back in a small ponytail accentuated with a wide-set nose and round rosy cheeks stood out as the woman’s most prominent features - coupled with her large yet sturdy curves wrapped in the usual unkempt apron and plain petticoat that swished wildly above her chubby ankles as she swept about. Sadira never understood why her old governess chose to remain in such a series of humble garments - to say the least - when she was in such a high position of caretaking. Sadira had hatefully seen (and tried to prevent) other maids back home executing a never-ending barrage of questioning glances and, sometimes, ill-humored jests.

  
In any case, the soon-to-be Sultana silently welcomed Chaand. Stepping towards her and resuming her flamboyance, the elderly maid smiled contentedly before performing a quirky bow in Sadira’s direction - so packed with grace that Sadira sometimes wondered how it was even possible for a woman her age.

  
Chaand wiped her hands speedily on apron around her waist before raising her hands and applying a hearty grip to Sadira’s forearms: “A fine day, ain’t it..? And oh - I still cannot believe this is happening. C’mon now! I’ll not have you arrive late in the presence of such a considerable portion of nobility!”

  
“Yes, of course, Chaand.” Although the smile she held never left her face, the older woman could sense that something was most definitely wrong.

  
“Dearest?” It was a question within a question - punctuated by a quirk of a thin brow. Sadira knew what was being asked.

  
“I’m fine,” she drawled; slipping her forearms from the woman’s grip to give her calloused hand the most reassuring squeeze she could muster. Pushing her shoulders back into the most queen-ly posture she had, Sadira let herself speak again: “As you say… If they’re ready, I believe we ought to begin.”

  
Chaand looked as if she wanted to say something more for a moment before letting fall whatever it was. Giving her a small nod, one last furrow of the eyes and a sharp bark to the servant girls for final preparations, the governess left Sadira to ponder what will become of her world in just a few minutes.

  
\---

Merdon never expected it to look this grand. The kitchen had been a pain to get through (having a dozen empty cups of dumped on you to wash by hand under conditions where you were more like to be knocked unconscious by a flying pot or blinded by spouting oil wasn’t exactly ideal) but, by Allah, he’ll do it a hundred times over if it meant seeing a sight like this.

  
Even amongst the hundreds of people stuffed in a singular, hall - or maybe because of it - Merdon found the Sultan’s palace to be the grandest place with a roof attached for which he could imagine.

  
Arabesque mosaics painted the entire room in dizzying shades of blue, red and gold. Pillars upholding a wide expanse of ceiling coupled with torches and fire drums placed all around threw a golden haze around the enormous chamber in the early night. Encircled by rounded columns much larger than he believed possible, Merdon soon found that the room opened directly onto a balcony of white marble. A long stretch of carpet coloured lavender and gold extended from the floor of the balcony - guiding Merdon’s eye up a few sets of stairs before making its way up a daise and ending just before the throne of Agrabah.

  
It was easily the most noticeable point in the entire space; but not the biggest. In fact, the seat of the throne was about the size of a normal chair - cushioned by an azul pillow. It was gold, of course - but what really struck him about the furniture was the ornate elephant statue that positioned itself right behind the throne within a floor-to-ceiling alcove. Its eyes were made of sapphires that glittered like trapped starlight as its trunk curled behind the throne’s back gracefully. Merdon had not even realized that he’s moved so much closer to the object of his fascination; nearly letting out an awed gasp at seeing the detailed engravings upon the elephant’s face. He felt his eyes fuse with the tusks that protruded from either sides; structures ending in polished orbs of lustery gold that served as armrests for a ruler.

  
He did not know how long his gaze rested on the elaborate throne, yet when he finally tore himself from its gilded frame, the hall had fallen into an eerie silence saved for a rhythmic humming of arabian music. A gentle sadness that morphed as fast into joy transcended the air around the hall and Merdon could only glance to see that a group of musicians had entered the balcony. Their hands varied from a whirlwind of speed to a mellow pace upon the variation of instruments that they held. In the distinctness of the oud, sharpness of the qanun, soulful howling of the nay, and mysticism of the violin, Merdon was almost captured by the quiet.

  
Shifting the empty tray from his hand to under his arm, he was surprised to perceive the sudden and silent appearance of beautiful ladies from curtained spaces on either side of the throne. As they swept forth on silk dresses of gold and emerald, handfuls of flowers fell from the baskets in their arms and onto the carpeted walk. Overwashed with the dizzying sweetness of the blooms and perfumes, Merdon felt himself step back unconsciously.

  
Shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment to refresh his senses, he eventually lifted his gaze and began to scan the crowds again - cruelly reminded of how relative the air was to the marketplace; with the sole exception that everyone now had a fortune on their finger and wealth around their waists. So when he found himself picking his way through the sea of people, the only thought was to how much easier this was. A brush to a hand here and a soft patting of a shoulder there brought more riches in his pockets than he could expect to see in a lifetime. He lifted coin purses from belts, bracelets from wrists and, occasionally, even necklaces from collarbones as easily as the desert wind hoisted sand and only stopped when he became fearful of the weight dragging at the apron around his waist.

  
Leaning against a nearby pillar quite distant from the center of the room, Merdon ran a hand through his tawny hair before checking in with the procession. Even with the contortions he made of himself, there wasn’t much he could see where he stood. Staring ahead, he satisfied himself with the movement of a pair of banners being manned to the balcony. The banner to the left, furthest from him bore the sigil of Agrabah - a cerulean elephant with its trunk wrapped around a setting sun; placed before a range of mountains known as the Atrazaks that surrounded the kingdom.

  
The banner closer to himself, however, must have belonged to the Sultana of Quataru, for it was unfamiliar to Merdon. A golden tiger with eyes of emerald stood with a paw placed atop a large gemstone; staring regally out from the tapestry even as the wind from the balcony beat against it.

  
Merdon followed the two sigils in their path and stopped with them as the pillars rounded. Meanwhile the procession continued beyond the room and out to the balcony. Caught by the ending of the wall, Merdon decided that silently shouldering past the barricade of foreign princes and their viziers gathered before him was completely out of the question. With the only other viable option being craning his neck ‘til a vertebrate popped, Merdon decided to step back and wait out the chance-of-a-lifetime spectacle unhappily.

  
Yet unhappiness had always been a difficult emotion for Merdon to acquire so, soon enough, he was glancing around the room in mirth again; eyes tracing hungrily cross all the wonders of architecture and design. He may or may not have heard the vows exchanged and the declaration of a national union pass - but that was just as alright for a soul like himself; content with all.

  
Yet Merdon did eventually register the end of the ceremony and the beginning of celebrations, though. How could he not? With thunderous hoots, claps and cheers, the joy of the guests arose and ended the stunned silence of the hall before the music was returned in ten-fold. And before he knew it, there was much more room than before as people surged onto the space originally cleared. While some rushed to the newly-wed royalty to offer their congratulations, others made the room a dance floor. Even more , however, watched with interest at the feast being laid with speed upon the formerly empty rows of birch tables.

  
Laughter and shouts intermixed with general excitement and incredulity stirred Merdon unconsciously, and soon enough, he felt quite at peace as well. In his mind - you are what everyone believed you are - and now, he was just a palace servant wrapped in the haze of palace grandiosity; left alone to observe and digress the atmosphere; to experience without interruption by the askance of others. He could take his time and appreciate or scoff at the architecture, the people, the tastes… Among some of the most important people the Seven Deserts have to offer, he was not one of them. So as Merdon toyed with a stolen ring from his bounty of ill-got gains, he decided that he was, for the time, more than content with being just another face in the crowd.

\---

Nasira will admit that it’s hard to say she’s bored at the event. And not, as one would expect, because of the extravagance for that can only amount to praise for the preparation of the palace staff. Though food was absolutely delightful - she’ll give them that much.

  
No, she’s much more interested in Jafar and the way for which he’s managed to either butter-up, discern or - though in comparatively less amounts - intimidate every statesman that’s approached them. After a particularly witty quip centered on the utter incompetence of the nearby brigand’s ability to find a trade route to milk for as long as it takes them to establish three new ones left an embassy of Dhamisk guffawing, Nasira had decidedly concluded that she would not miss any future weddings for all the wealth in the land; should her brother attend as well.

  
Lost in contemplation and sifting through the crowd with her gaze, Nasira only turned when she felt her brother’s arm tense suddenly in her own. Looking up slightly, Jafar’s hooded, kohl-lined eyes had adopted a certain tension as the corners of his lips curled reluctantly in a forced smile. Nasira traced his gaze, and with a knowing sigh, saw Agrabah’s Sultan Osmund wave at them with the arm not withheld by the new Sultana.

  
Nasira waved back and felt her own expression matching her brother’s with every waddle the man took in their direction. She soon felt her brother surge forth dutifully to meet him and with every step, saw his smile melt into something more natural - with the only tell of falsity lurking in the smallest furrow of his arched brows.  
“My most sincere congratulations, Your Majesty. This is a day that most certainly will go remembered.” He bowed as Nasira curtsied politely. Her eyes bounced from the Sultan to the Sultana and lingered a short while longer than perhaps necessary on the latter. By Allah, Nasira had to accept that she (Sadira, that was her name) was indeed very beautiful. Her eyes were cast at the ground and only rose at the sound of her brother’s voice. The Sultan, in turn, gave a small chuckle that lit up his beady eyes and lifted his bearded face.

  
“Oh, Jafar - ever with the pleasing words. My beloved - this is my Grand Vizier - Jafar Asmier, and of course his younger twin sister; the lovely High Lady of Court, Nasira Asmier. Jafar, Nasira; Sultana Sadira Daivari, of Quataru - of course.”

  
“Charmed to meet you both,” the Sultana offered, dipping her chin towards them slightly in acknowledgement. Her voice had a sharp edge to it despite the soft delivery and when Sadira’s eyes glazed over her brother, then Nasira; the focus in them left her slightly perturbed. There was something effortlessly hypnotic about the way that she spoke; like an incense that made Nasira tread the thin line between sickness and adoration.

  
“Likewise, Your Grace,” she beat back.

A small moment of silence passed between them before Nasira turned to the Sultan - who looked as jolly as any man had the right to be: “Your Majesty, I have been meaning to speak to you about finances for an undertaking I’m interested in pursuing… That is - the construction of the aqueducts along the Carmine Channel.”

  
“Oh yes - of course… I suppose we ought to discuss that,” he agreed, though undeniably somewhat forlornly at the prospect of work. Nasira paid no heed to his tone. After all, she ought to have something to show for herself after attending such an event; and Nasira had never been one to let opportunities fly.  
So with a few accommodating words of brief parting, Nasira let her words lead the way.

  
\---

Sadira found the twins interesting in a way that left her at a complete loss to explain. From how they held themselves to their every word - both exuded a sense of authority that she found non-existent in her… husband. Despite lacking in either crown or throne, she now had an idea of who really ruled the country.

  
She supposed that they were also as strikingly similar as they were different. Jafar was about half a hand taller than Nasira; who was just slightly shorter than herself. They were also quite young - about her age. But what captured her was their immediate presence. For while others buried themselves in silks, jewels and egyptian cotton dyed all the colours Sadira could name, they kept to form-fitting leather and light velvet - to which she found refreshing. As her eyes traced across their features, she couldn’t help but note their contrast to the collection of rounded cheeks, broad foreheads and chubbier jowls that she had greeted in dozens as well. In comparison, the twin’s appearances were much more striking.

  
Nasira’s features were etched in elegance. A gracefully high forehead and set of pronounced cheekbones that complemented her deeply set eyes and arched brows were what stood out to Sadira. Bearing a Romanesque nose, hair shades darker than her own and a dancer’s body, Nasira reminded her of a painting in the halls of Quataru that depicted All-at, goddess of the moon.

  
The brother was, objectively, just as handsome. Jafar’s wavy, dark hair - even with it pulled back - and knife-edge cheekbones were practically a copy of her sister’s, but the resemblance ends about there. Tan skin, a straight clean-cut nose, and acute jaw line brought forth an attraction to him. Meanwhile his hooded ebony eyes, haughty brows and thin, defined lips gave Sadira the impression of a dangerous self that lurked behind those polite words and courteous manners. Jafar had something to him that spoke of a fatal allure - much like the beauty that you would expect in poisonous animals of nature.

  
Of course, all that was only a discerning analysis of the two - for Sadira had no other intention saved for speaking the truth behind what she perceived. So when Nasira left none too soon to speak on some affairs of state with the Sultan, she told herself that it was only a matter of chivalry for him and curiosity for her to accept his suggestion in moving to the balcony for some air.

  
Sadira ‘s mind did grow clearer the further they placed themselves from the noise of the dancing, dining and discussing crowd. So, when they reach the balcony, she couldn’t help but inhale what seemed like her first breath in a long time; watching as the clouds swirled above like stirred ink floating atop a city lit by bonfires and faint music. Beyond the white walls, she could faintly make out the smoky figures of men, women and children twisting with the beat of the drums or otherwise drinking and feasting on whatever they have cooking over their spits. Buildings of brick, mud and wood rose to meet the tendrils of soot and ash that floated from their chimneys; bathed in a haze of their occupant’s merry - each more welcoming than the last.

  
Sadira let a moment pass in silence at the sight, smiling faintly to herself. When she did speak, it was a genuine question directed at Jafar.

  
“Is it always this beautiful?” She asked it openly; and could feel his gaze shift to her before returning to the horizon before them.

  
“Beautiful?” He laid a hand on the railing, tapping it absentmindedly. Sadira watched as Jafar tilted his head to one side - as if seeing the city for the first time: “No… not always. It’s actually quite hectic when the sun’s up- more merchants, traders and scholars pass through this city in one day than the largest town I know.”

  
She thought about that for a moment before trying a different approach.

  
“But that’s what makes Agrabah so wondrous, isn’t it? The beauty lies in the sense that it’s just so… purposeful - even if it’s hectic,” Sadira replied. Jafar tilted his head at her further in question. Sadira gestured vaguely at the streets beneath them: “Everyone here has something to offer and it, well… It shows; from the clothing and furniture to the spices. I’ve seen some of the jewelry you export as well - they’re quite exquisite.”

  
Jafar blinked at her in a way that left Sadira wondering if anything she just said made even the slightest bit of sense before he lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck.

  
“Trinkets in comparison to your country’s mineral riches and expertise in gems, Your Grace. Agrabah is but a shadow of Quataru in that regard.” He murmured. A coy smile laced with amusement had dominated his expression and she watched as his dark eyes directed at her fill with something akin to… shyness?

  
Sadira’s stomach, in any case, might have just tried to climb out her throat. She told herself that it was surely - and solely - because of what he said. In a few words, Jafar had not only complimented her home land with a truth, but have also supported the idea that she may still want to be associated with Quataru even when the event they were at was, in every way, meant to mold her into a figure of Agrabah. It really shouldn’t have made her as happy as it did and the need to return the praise swelled within her.

  
“Perhaps,” she supplied in the sweetest tone she could muster, voice now channeling for sincerity: “But Agrabah is no doubt still a wondrous city. As it should, of course - being the crown of the Atrazak mountains and Keeper of the Carmine Channel. Seeing it once must bring the wonder of a lifetime. But to live here for a lifetime - one can only imagine the excitement and adventure.”

  
Jafar was a thread away from beaming by the time she finished. Letting his chin fall to his chest in a chuckle, he raised his eyes to her again after a short second - unable to keep the smile from his words:

  
“That’s very gracious of you to say, Your Grace. But there’s ought to be more adventure in my paperwork than on those cobblestones and the most excitement you’ll have is if you manage to make it through them with your coin purse still intact. There are still numerous improvements we could make to it all.”

  
Sadira nodded - letting her delight at his wit display itself through the widening of her smile - a smile she didn’t even realize she had held and most definitely more real than any she had for awhile now. Interestingly, it was just a little troubling how utterly different this conversation was going for her in comparison to the rest of the guests she’d had the pleasure to speak to. Every word uttered just seemed to… stick, and the utter incredulity that this - a conversation with some wordsmith on a marble balcony - might be the most memorable moment of her wedding struck her dumb. Unless she’s fainted from stress and this is just a collective fever dream, Sadira really isn’t sure how to make sense of any of this.

  
But that wasn’t the only oddity, she realized. Throughout her life, Sadira had been privy to the gift and curse that was beauty. In time, she became a great reader of men; could tell every breath drawn in preparation for a proposition of her hand and every word uttered for her heart. It was her greatest strength - as it soon extended to understanding people’s most innate desires in general - most commonly gold; power; honor; and sometimes, herself.

  
From Jafar, there was without doubt a high amount of the first two - understandable. Riches and authority often went hand-in-hand and he probably wouldn’t be in the position he is now without such an appetite to achieve them. Yet that most certainly wasn’t all - for the craving of gold or power isn’t the most self-sustainable standing on their own.  
There was definitely something more to the man, and she was intent on rooting it out.

  
“Your Grace?”

  
Sadira didn’t realize that she had been staring into the space beyond him. She snapped back into attention just to see Jafar look at her in that half-concern, half-amused way again. She mentally shook herself before swallowing and letting out a small chuckle.

  
“I apologize - you must think me so naive. I find Agrabah really… different; in its vigor. While Quataru’s so much more…”

  
“Refined?” he offered.

“Yes.” Sadira would’ve kicked herself if she could. Instead, she asked: “Have you been?”

  
“Once or twice.” Jafar returned casually. Sadira watched him closely.

  
“And how was it?”

  
Jafar glanced at her in a way that was a bizarre mix between uncertainty and discomfort. He was smiling pleasantly, even if the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.

  
“Just as rich and awe-inspiring as its reputation precedes,” he spoke, though his tone fell a bit flat and the certain look about his eyes returned. Clearing his throat, Jafar continued, more consistently: “My apologies, Your Grace. My sister particularly loved the greco-romanesque styles in architecture - with all its simple elegance, as I recall. Quataru is undeniably marvelous at that - and many more regards.”

  
Sadira dipped her head at him politely but did not miss the look in his eyes that said - it could be better. She decided to go for it; keeping her next few phrases as neutral as possible:

  
“Yes - but; no place is perfect, right? There are always flaws that you find yourself needing to fix - to strengthen; that is our duty, after all.”

  
And there it was. Sadira watched as Jafar’s big eyes widened just slightly and his brows furrow immediately in disbelief at her words; being words that should have only existed in his mind, yet spoken so openly by someone else. Satisfaction filled her very core even as she traced a gaze over the mouth that had fallen open slightly. She had guessed right; dug out the fulcrum to his balance and made him know it.

  
She watched with anticipation as Jafar readied his next words, yet an abrupt interruption from the within the palace broke through their silence.

  
“Brother!” a voice called and both of them turned. Nasira, of course, strode towards them - no longer attached to the Sultan - and stopped right before Jafar, who had managed to collect himself enough, giving his sister a small smile.

  
“‘Sira,” he purred as Nasira hooked an arm around his naturally. He eventually chanced another glance back to Sadira who felt herself looking at him expectantly.

  
“Another time, Your Grace…?” he inquired - all the former courtesy replaced in a heartbeat.

  
“Of course.” She stilled herself and let her shoulders drop back and chin lift, despite her eyes softening under the ghost of a smile: “Have a good night.”

  
Nasira turned to her and, for a moment, Sadira felt like she was staring down the end of a loaded cannon with those dark eyes half-illuminated in the torchlight before the woman spoke; all culture and honey.

  
“To you as well, my queen.”

  
So she quietly bid their company goodbye for the moment in her mind. Brother and sister strode away, retreating back into the crowd. And though the night ended in song and dance - heralding the union of kingdoms, Sadira had a sense that it was only the beginning to something bigger than any celebration can foresee.


	2. In the Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is gonna be a shorter chapter now - still book sized (sorry, sorry - writers like me need to be stopped lolz) but w/some humor So...ya! Enjoy! :)

So maybe Merdon might have lied to himself; it really was a lot harder to leave the palace than he thought - and he had no idea why. Sure the gilded everything was a major motivator in getting him through the door. But they sure weren’t the reason why he’s lodged himself temporarily in an abandoned closet of sorts - right beside the servant’s quarters. Examining the thick layer of tell-tale dust coating the many mops, buckets, brooms and sponges that lay cluttered all around, Merdon was fairly certain that the place had been left unvisited for awhile now. Who else other than him should have the motive to make it home?

  
Even with such a corner of safety, Merdon doesn’t really know why he stayed. Despite the guaranteed prospect of food and drink (with the location of every storage room, kitchen, dining room, fountain and fruit bowl placed about the palace soon etched clearly in his mind), there were arguably much higher stakes for him. A few stolen handfuls of market goods might get you a good beating or lay claim to your hand if the owner was particularly nasty. But to take anything of the Sultan’s, much less trespass on royal grounds by criminal means (alright fine - theft) was punishable by death.

  
Yet he stayed - for every time logic pushed him in the direction of the door, his eyes would wander instead and spot a passage unexplored or a particularly elegant room and his feet would oblige; carrying him to the source of this inane temptation. They call it curiosity. Merdon called it a curse. For each second he risked to satisfy that aching hunger, it only grew in size and strength until the need to see more, hear more, feel more became less of a calling and more of a command.

  
Though that is not to say Merdon ever let such excitement partnered with his own impulsiveness completely overrule his safety and self-preservation. He wasn’t stupid, after all, and never forgot the risks whenever he had to face anyone who actually belonged in these walls. Making it not only a mission to avoid the guards - for obvious reasons - Merdon tried to dodge the servants as well.

  
Upgrading the uniform he’s collected by equipping himself with a feather duster and a raggedy towel - attached to a hemp rope belt around his waist; he found that these objects gave both purpose and helped him look inconspicuous enough to passing sentries and occupied attendees on several occasions. Much to his glee and somewhat disbelief, that seemed to work. After all, it wasn’t as if cleaning a vase once too many times was an offense; nor were the guards in ties so tight with the service sector in the palace that one new servant unannounced drew any notable attention.

  
Even so, Merdon made sure he didn’t wander too far from where servants ought to wander; though that didn’t seem to be much of a problem at all. There were always maids and attendees bustling from one place to the other - carrying loads of clean clothing, tablecloths and curtains or otherwise rearranging, setting and polishing some object; especially in the days following the royal wedding. He took upon any task that was shouted his way with as little conversation as possible and was soon familiarized with the structure of service in the palace; which was, to his surprise, efficient to an outrageously high degree.

  
Regular servants of the palace are managed by head servers that belong to different sectors. These servers, in his experience, seem to have a specific schedule they must follow each day. To Merdon’s knowledge, there were approximately five sectors - cooking, cleaning, gardening, soldiery and construction - with each sector’s duties blended seamlessly into palace life.

  
Those under the tutelage of cooking (Merdon found that his uniform, unsurprisingly as based on its origin, belonged to this sector) were not only charged with preparing nourishment, but also acquiring the resources by purchasing goods from the marketplace and docks each week, checking the freshness of meat and produce in storage, and all the processes leading up to and after a dish served for anyone from the Sultan to a scribe.

  
Naturally, he knew less about the other sectors - but have seen them bustling about enough to gain a good idea of their jobs as well. Those of the cleaning and gardening sector were significantly less in number but makes up for it in skill - as Merdon, respectively, couldn’t find a spot of the building defiled by dirt and Agrabah did boast the most beautiful water gardens of the Cardinal Kingdoms and east of the Channel. Those serving under the soldiery sector (found by snippets of conversation) were usually youths aspiring to take on a place in the army or palace guard but first often charged with sharpening weapons, welding anything from breastplates to gauntlets, caring for the cavalry horses, and tending to the barracks and their inhabitants.

  
Yet the largest part of the palace attendees by far, and likely those with the greatest amount of work, are those in the construction sector. Indeed, they resembled “workers” much more than “servants” and had the responsibility of all repairs, renovations and raising of structures ranging from entirely new wings to small-scale windows within the palace. And yes - apparently the palace was always expanding; with completely new rooms (not that they needed any more, Merdon thought) always being painted, furnished and opened for use. Merdon found it being the sector he was most utterly astonished by; for it gave the impression that the building could never rest - as if it sensed its own glory and could only satisfy itself by its non-stop growth.

  
In any case, all five sectors seemingly report to one of the two foundations that lie just below the Council of the Crown, and thereby the Sultan, in authority. Merdon believed it to be the Court of Grace; the Court of Law didn’t seem so concerned with internal affairs anyway. But he really wasn’t sure. All the same - the servants of each sector rotated in duties periodically, but were granted two days of the week for rest: days of which were to be determined by the head server and only revocable in special events or as penalty for an offense.

  
It wasn’t as if any of that mattered much to Merdon; every day was a day of rest for hi - as a soul free from judgement of others. If shouted at to perform a task, he would - and even found himself floating to the source of the commands sometimes out of pure boredom.

  
At least that’s what he told himself as he hauled the bags of grains up the rough stone steps of the storage room and into the pantries within the kitchen. Stretching like a cat after the task was complete, Merdon slipped the hatches of the storeroom shut before skipping through the towering archways and towards the center of the palace.

  
With a habit of keeping his footsteps light even in the midday sun, he made short work of his way through the winding corridors. Not that it was very difficult to get to the gardens, Merdon thought - there were multiple passages he could take, and as long as he didn’t lose sight of the windows peering in from the heart of the palace, he’ll be fine. Rounding the corner, he satisfactorily found himself directly beneath an overhang that opened into the wide expanse that was the most magnificent garden he felt himself deserving enough to behold.

  
It was also his favorite place to be and one that he frequented as much as he could. His gaze never stopped roaming in awe at the rows of palm trees that towered over thick leaves of trimmed hedges that bathed the garden in a palette of green (emerald, juniper, seafoam, chartreuse - Merdon found that naming the shades a common past-time of his now). A giant fountain sat in the middle of the courtyard as well; water pouring from its disk-like structure and collecting in a pool that branched off to the east and west in a man-made river filled to the edges. Flowers of all sizes, shapes and colours - from the smallest desert marigold to bouquets of purple dahlias - adorned every patch of available grass. It was hard to remember that beyond the luxurious stone walls covered with devil’s ivy laid leagues of barren desert hardly able to house even the most resilient of blooms when faced with a sight such as this. Merdon found the gardens somewhat surreal in that way; as if it was all nothing more than a place borne solely of his imagination.

  
When he caught himself taking steps toward the fountain, mesmerized as always, Merdon turned in haste; dipping towards his usual spot underneath a short but stout palm tree. He found it to be the most favourable location due to the sheer security of it. The tree’s leaves were broad enough that they swept over a clearing beneath it of sorts; expelling all light so that no vegetation larger than a few ferns poked from the ground. At the very least, it provided a sanctuary for Merdon from the sun’s unforgiving heat. The clearing was further surrounded by a wall of hedges to the height of his waist - saved for an opening. It was a spot he found by sheer luck.

  
And so Merdon made his way to the tree - reaching out to push apart the branches securing the opening to the clearing. His fingers had not brushed the bush when he found himself jumping back and whirling around in terror at the scream that tore through the air directly above his head.

  
The first thought hurtled at him is that something was about to crush him entirely. The scream, which definitely wasn’t human, more closely resembled a screech of the rusty pulley hinges that lifted the tons upon tons of cargo and food imported to and from storage each morning - or rather, the sound he imagined they would make if one ever snaps and crush the poor bastard unfortunate enough to be standing beneath. And right now, he’ll bet anything that poor bastard was him.

  
Though he was certainly afraid to look up, instinct acted for him faster than fear could freeze his muscles. Glancing up, Merdon saw that there was nothing above him; only the shade of some palms outlined against the clear blue sky. Confused, he spun about like a top - but could not find anything out of the ordinary at all; until that heinous shriek - louder, somehow - was heard again somewhere up in the trees to his left.

  
Merdon did not hesitate in finding the source of the sound now. His eyes darted across the foliage - and landed on a bright scarlet macaw that stood. Its talons clutching to balance itself precariously on the spine of a palm frond, it seemed to sense his gaze; letting out another piercing shriek in response.

  
He had seen many birds in his life and though he certainly wasn’t any expert, Merdon thought this particular one to be the most striking. The macaw was primarily a deeper shade of crimson than the ones he remembers encountering in the markets and void of any other colour saved for a selection of blue feathers around the tip of his wings and where his tail fans from his body. Wait, no - from the transition between the blue and red, Merdon could, with difficulty, make out just a thin band of golden feathers tipped; tinged in green at the base.

  
The bird’s eyes were but tiny black beads in the distance - surrounded by ivory-white down. Merdon felt himself step back when he saw the polished beak open and the head of the macaw turn towards him.

  
“ _In the garden!_ ” Its head tilted, and Merdon froze. It was, without doubt staring at him. Even with the distance, the animal’s gaze was almost human. The same phrase was belted out again: “ _In the garden!_ ”

  
A moment of silence ensued. Merdon was at a complete loss for action. Instead, he just stood there - listening to the chirping of smaller birds and letting the wind carry cooling breezes across his skin, which in his surprise, had broken into a cold sweat. His admiration (or fear? Though that can’t be right. Why should he fear a bird?) left him with his feet glued to the spot.

  
He stood there for some time; just watching the parrot sift through its bright feathers. Only unfreezing when the clicking of boot heels on marble pierced through the air somewhere to Merdon’s right: a different passage that led into the courtyard.

  
Without a second thought - he dove around the corner of a nearby hedge till his figure was no longer in view before the path that extended from archway the passage opened itself into. Concealing himself behind the vegetation, he parted a few twigs just in time to see a young, dark-haired man round the corner. Merdon could barely withhold a sigh of relief when he saw the man stop right before the stairs to the courtyard.

  
One look and he knew there was no way this man worked in any position beneath that of a representative in at least one of the courts. He was clad in fitted clothing of cured leather and an obsidian cloak lined in a monarch orange. Merdon curiously noted a silvery band of armor on his person that overlapped in a way which reminded him of scales on a snake’s belly. Encircled his waist, the metal, a flexible and fine piece of craftsmanship, ended at his hips. Further down, strapped to his thigh by smaller girdles and half-hidden in the shadows of his cloak, was a dagger. The dagger, to Merdon’s curiosity, looked like it was fashioned from the tip of a harpoon - hooking back smoothly at the point and encased in a worn scabbard.

  
Despite all this, Merdon didn’t think he was a soldier at all. For one, this man didn’t walk like one, he observed, as he descended the steps to the courtyard. From the subtle sway when he strode and spilt shoulder-length hair to the click of those heels across the paved path; certainly no soldier would be allowed such a taste in fashion.

  
All such thoughts were cut short, however, when Merdon saw that the man’s gaze was directed at the parrot. He was only glad to see that the bird was no longer staring at him - eyes trained on the newcomer. With less than half a yard in distance, Merdon was able to see that the man was hardly twenty-and-three years old, perhaps even a bit younger than himself.

  
His eyes locked onto the macaw and Merdon watched as he beckoned to it with a curl of the fingers before putting his arm out in a way that suggested a spot for a bird to perch. He watched with the utmost fascination a moment later as the palm frond rustled as the macaw unfurled its wings.

  
It lifted itself into the air with a wondrous power on bold, red feathers, its tail spread to maintain its balance. Gliding over the distance gracefully, it hovered for a moment before finding the trajectory to land on the man’s extended arm. Shuffling its feathers, the macaw - to Merdon’s further surprise - cawed and rubbed its head against the hollow of the man’s shoulder warmly.

  
After closing the length and settling down, Merdon was startled to see how large the bird really was. Its body, from beak to tail if he had to guess, was about three of his own forearms in length - with its head the size of his outspread hand. Indeed, Merdon had no idea how the tree, or even the man currently, was able to uphold its weight - if it wasn’t a creature of flight.

  
Seeing the bird nudge at so him fondly drew a snicker from him. Pulling his arm away from himself, he lifted his other hand to graze through its flaming plumage.

  
“Iago - you can’t fly around screaming every time you want a few scratches from me,” he sighed, expression only identifiable as one of pained amusement.

  
Merdon had to stifle a chuckle at that. The parrot - Iago, apparently - only dragged his face along the top of his hand, completely unaware of his master’s exasperation. His fingers continued to run through the bird’s feathers - tracing the shoulder of a wing absentmindedly.

  
“By Allah, if only you knew how loud you are… Or maybe you do - but just love the sound of your own voice too much, hm?” he scoffed - even as a soft smile wound itself into his eyes. His hand paused beneath Iago’s chin as his gaze grew into that of a chastising parent: “I can understand. Doesn’t make it any less rude of you though. I have a country to run, after all - the least you can do is shut up for a bit.”

  
Merdon frowned curiously. From his speech, perhaps this individual was of a greater position in court than he realized. Some king’s emissary, perhaps? That might explain the garments. Or maybe an arrogant lord? Merdon smiled inwardly. No - more like the arrogant son of a lord - with a bird to match.

  
At the cessation of the petting, Merdon watched humorously as Iago caught his fingers in his beak and maneuvered his head under his hand. He tsked at the bird before turning suddenly - causing Merdon to duck back at the movement. But the man couldn’t have seen him - standing in profile to where Merdon hid and facing the passageway; left arm supporting the parrot. His voice came forth hardly louder than a murmur now.

  
“I don’t think they’ll be very pleased if I bring you with me, Iago… And we still have a few hours ‘til conference dismissal,” he let out a breathe, eyes furrowed in thought: ‘Sira’s busy… Though maybe you can hang out with some ladies of the court. Or should I find a servant around here? You like Hazita, don’t you?”  
Iago shuffled his wings and cocked his head him.

  
“Hazita!” he returned in a voice much too intelligent for Merdon’s liking.

  
Seemingly satisfied with the response, he watched as the man dropped his hand to the parrot’s feet. It stepped on with no hesitation. Pausing to feel the bird’s grip, he then brought the bird up to perch on his shoulder in one fluid motion.

  
“Alright- Hazita, it is then.”

  
With a spin on his heels and soundless swish of the cloak, he walked up the steps and disappeared into the passageway he came without another word. The garden was quiet again - as it should be without Merdon’s silent ponderings.

  
_Who?_ \- was the first question he had; along with a few others, of course. People in a position of power, from his experience, usually let others know; often with jewelry, clothing and even exotic pets - luxuries not afforded to any high-ranking officials along with members of the council he’d seen. In fact - most to all were mandated in dress; a breathable, gold and blue (or silver and blue, for ambassadors and emissaries) overcoat of cotton that is, though patterns and styles - but rarely color - varied between members of varying courts. Not like he knew a lot about them other than that there’s three; and the Sultan’s in charge of them all. Truth be told, Merdon wasn’t at all quite sure how the economy-begetting, law-making and country-running system works, or even - in all honesty - what it is.

  
He did have a grasp on some facts though - just the basics that you’ll have to be deaf or blind to miss; most of which came from tavern conversations and news to the people. His mind raced through the bits of knowledge he’d collected in his usual attempt to frame his surroundings with what he knew.

  
In both politics and geographics, Merdon grasped that Agrabah was, currently, the largest of the four Cardinal Kingdoms when once there were five; the other three being Fortiva to the east, Khaldor to the south and Dhamisk to the southeast. To his knowledge, the kingdom’s power had heightened exponentially in the past half a decade with two events - led by the Grand Vizier: They were told as the Annexation of Courica and the Conquest of Opuult.

  
Merdon has heard many different recounts of Courica’s story; being the more recent of the two events and hardly more than a year old. Though perhaps the simplest answer was that it was merely a fluke - a fluke that disowned the ruler of a Cardinal Kingdom and borne from the insanity of an over-ambitious youth; inexperienced and eager to see blood flow for his own legacy.

  
Of course, people are bound to analyze. But in the end, still none could say they knew completely why Courica was annexed; except perhaps Agrabah’s own Grand Vizier - the man who ordered it to be. Even so, some argued that as the smallest of the Cardinal Kingdoms, it made for the best target. The more educated pointed out that it happened to lie on more than fifty trade routes. More importantly, it was equidistant from all the other Cardinal Kingdoms - making it the ideal stop for anyone crossing through Carmine Channel to the west, the Atrazak Mountains to the north or the Strazak Mountains to the south. Courica provided the perfect place for even the smallest haggler to work in the same city as the wealthiest merchant; absolutely the trade post of any ruler’s dream - if it didn’t already have a government of its own.

  
For a kingdom with an almost non-existent military force, Courica ensured its lineage of prosperity through the centuries by strong ties through trade with Quataru; the oldest kingdom of them all and known for the massive quarries it sat upon. With its economy flourishing under all the riches the earth possessed, Quataru did not fail to see the value in Courica and traded their sapphires, amber and emeralds for silks, spices, medicine and all the wealth of the world brought by the travelers circulating through the kingdom.  
Yet prosperity of one usually came at the jealousy of all. The situation grew tense as kingdoms did not shy from eyeing and goading over every fabric of Courica - every piece of its street a delightful morsel of wealth and power in the gaze of Sultans from Dhamisk to Fortiva. Yet no army laid waste to Courica; out of… Fear? Morals? Preservation of tradition? Merdon wasn’t sure - but he had to believe it was something along those lines.

  
All he knew was that it lasted so up until Agrabah’s Grand Vizier marched through their gates with a hundred thousand cavalry one day, unhinged his jaws and swallowed it whole. The ones that resisted the advance were rumoured to have been executed without trial in the night while tax offices belonging to any other kingdom were sacked. For the first month, chaos ensued. Nobody knows what became of the Sultan of Courica while Agrabah itself, despite holding the largest military force of all the remaining Cardinal Kingdoms, was still threatened incessantly. It was a time like any where the break of war remained on the brink of everyone’s mind.

  
Ambassadors from Dhamisk, Fortiva, Khaldor and even Quataru - despite being renowned in history for avoiding confrontations - were sent again and again with armed escorts who demanded an audience with the Grand Vizier (the Sultan’s incompetency being common knowledge). Negotiations were denied and made, a few repercussions were compensated, but eventually, the tides died down. Another few months and shock further dissipated as improvements to Courica began under Agrabah’s reign. Old buildings were redesigned, funds were dumped onto every working business and the poor that did exist were addressed. Fear and uncertainty became gratitude and happiness - at least for the people. After all, who cares whose banners are flying from the walls when there was still a fortune to be made?

  
Opuult - now Merdon prided himself on knowing the details of that story. It happened to be a movement largely supported by the general hatred of Agrabah towards the western city and their stingy king; some Sultan of some house or other - and with fair reasons.

  
The ruler of Opuult took great advantage of his country’s geography; investing solely in the large, jungle-like land ranges along the Channel that provided them with copious amounts of timber. And so they lived lavishly by minimal production and heavy taxation on imports of their wooden reapings to Agrabah.

  
It wouldn’t be as bad if the people of Opuult kept their resources to themselves - but at least kept their pride from running rampant. Indeed, they constructed buildings standing on pillars of mahogany, manufactured dozens of galleon-esque ships and even lined their streets with blocks of teak. Meanwhile, a trunk of spruce from Opuult, barely enough to serve as a door, was worth a full week’s salary from your average shopkeeper in Agrabah.

  
Countless ministers were sent in the attempt to fabricate better arrangements and a stricter partnership that didn’t leave only the middle class with the smallest sloops and the odd schooner - yet each one returned angrier than the last. So for all their lumber and luxury, Opuult eventually fell in a blazing heap when the cannons and falchions of Agrabah tore through their streets and rained fire down on their pillars of mahogany and streets of teak; but the gallon-esque ships were towed back. What couldn’t be cut down and taken by Agrabah was destroyed. Opuult was rebuilt and named Maarika; for the mother of the same Grand Vizier involved with Courica’s demise, from what Merdon has heard.

  
So heard he has. Stories such as these were hardly any trouble to find for someone like himself, at least before entering the palace; for living on over-populated streets made such food for the ears almost easier to come by than actual food. Ironically; it was the exact opposite now. Merdon agreeably always had a feast at his fingertips, but found the halls utterly vacant with news of the next alliance.

  
He supposed he knew why. When constitutions are announced, rations are passed or policies are introduced, they aren’t meant to control the state of the palace but rather, the people to which the palace stands for. It was such as a rock tossed into a pond - you wouldn’t feel the ripples if you were the rock. But on the outside, the effects are evident. If he wanted to know more of where that rock came from, he’ll surely have to climb out of the pond first.

  
It was a frightening concept - and perhaps why Merdon hadn’t yet stepped foot in the central wing; despite being utterly knowledgeable of every other nook and cranny.  
To him, it wasn’t only the prospect of being caught whilst infiltrating quarters that house the decisions and leaders of a kingdom. Sure, he’ll be slipping into halls with higher amounts of traffic and keener eyes. It was one thing to participate in the life of the palace - but to understand the reason for why it must be sustained? Merdon wasn’t so sure he held the right in knowing up until now.

  
Even though it was just a man with his parrot, the encounter gave Merdon the realization that there wasn’t much to be afraid of. They were as human as himself; just with a lot more extravagance in their tastes. So what? He was a collector of stories. A traveler without a destination. A street rat with nothing else at stake saved for his life; and by risking it, he has managed to see more than he could ever hope for.

  
Merdon knew that he wouldn’t have stayed anyway if he didn’t feel as if there was a good story to be told. And so, between the curiosity whipping up a storm in his gut and his gut’s argument itself, he made his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Merdon is just your average chaotic neutral boi - lolz - with a perspective that, I think, is the easiest to write in. But I am my own worst enemy so maybe that's just me? Anyway, chapter 3 coming in a day or two!


	3. Concerning the Codex

Nasira loved mornings. 

Her best plans for the day were always made ready to be executed in the mornings. There was just something so invigorating seeing the shining ball of fire rise into the sky and the kingdom bustle to life around her. She took advantage of her restfulness and was always the first to lay out duties for the court; highlighting all that must be done and calling attention to the heads of each assembly. It was almost second nature for her; as Nasira loved getting up and regaining control of a fresh start - daringly taking on the dawn.

But her brother most certainly didn’t share that sentiment, she thought - watching him yawn for the fifth time in an hour as he poured over the piles of paperwork and manuscripts. His responsibilities were set on subjects on a national degree so besides some parchments detailing trade reports, Nasira - who solely managed affairs within Agrabah - had no idea what he was working on. 

She didn’t feel the need to ask, anyway. The siblings were often content enough with working in silence. Overlaps of concern between duties were not uncommon yet very manageable thanks to her adaptability and his creativity. Although that didn’t mean Nasira could find no flaw in working with her brother. She’s long admitted that Jaffy is nothing if not a relentless perfectionist and scarily ambitious. If she wasn’t his twin, Nasira would have found it hard to keep up with him at times.

In any case, Nasira thought she knew why Jafar was still curled up here. But as for herself...Well - court meetings had ended around noon, as usual. Nasira only ever held them in the mornings anyway - leaving her the rest of the day for administration and fieldwork. Not only so, but Nasira admits that she’s much more prone to burning out in the afternoons and evenings anyway; when she’ll rather pitch herself off the palace roofs than dish out demanding duties and address the intricate problems provided by the court. 

But now that’s over with, Nasira did have a few hours until she needed to visit the site where the plans for the aqueducts were to be carried out. So she had made her way to the cavernous chamber that was Agrabah’s library to find her brother - almost absent-mindedly.

Nasira believed she could never fully understand the library of Agrabah. No amount of years would ever draw her interest from the rows upon rows of orderly maze-like shelves; filled with ancient tomes of anything from conquest to the most recent journal on healer’s arts. It was utterly enchanting; yet she could not think of a single soul who loved it more than her brother.

Despite having an office nearly the size of her chamber, Jafar made the library his domain. A table of pitch-black obsidian cut into a slab larger than his bed standing on legs of rosewood dictated a secular space towards the back of the shelves. Two couches of copper-gold velvet the length of the table stretched out behind and in front of it whilst a considerably sized arabian window allowed the sun’s rays to cast a wide sweep of light into the area - shedding a golden haze on the table’s, many, many matters - at the moment.

Teapots and cups of coffee on gilded trays, piles of papers held down by stamps placed far and wide along with at least a dozen leather-bound notebooks were spread before her brother; only a quarter of which were her own.

Nasira had occupied the couch on the outside of the table and had been busy reading through taxation reports and commentaries drawn up by the assembly of common welfare for some time now. The lunch of steamed dolmas and kibbeh had long settled pleasantly in her stomach - blending the lettering on the page and clouding her mind with drowsiness. 

It wasn’t long before Nasira began to shift; uncrossing her legs to bring them on the couch and propping her head against the armrest - stretching her body across the velvet and feeling the satisfying pull of tense muscles along her sides and back. She glanced up after a moment to regard Jafar seated across from herself - and who hadn’t moved much at all. 

Her gaze trained on him. Dwarfed by the towering walls of bookshelves around him, Jafar looked like he wanted to melt into the cushions of the couch. His hooded eyes skimming the papers clutched in his hands with a wavering intensity. Every fiber of his being seemed to crave for sleep; with only the tension in his shoulders betraying such a need.

His grip was on a tawny quilled pen - dipping it into its respective jar of ink periodically as he jotted down lines on lines of writing without rest. Her brother’s hair framed his face loosely; strands standing out in a way that made Nasira wonder if he had slept on the couch. His lips were pursed in concentration and she couldn’t help but notice the careless collar crowning a wrongly buttoned shirt. Staring at him, she suddenly found the scritch of quill on paper almost frustrating. So Nasira cleared her throat in a way that suggested a need for his attention. 

Jafar looked up at the sound and actually managed to shoot a small smile at his sister. Nasira only watched as he set his quill down and let his shoulders roll back tersely to feel the muscles and bone rearrange themselves - before his gaze flew back to her.

“Tired?” he asked. Nasira couldn’t help but notice the hollowness to his eyes and the dark circles underneath as he leaned forward - propping an arm on the table, chin supported in his palm and fingers curled to rest on his cheek. For an insane moment, she wanted to burst out laughing.

“No,” Nasira returned instead and watched as Jafar nodded almost imperceptibly before sitting up and wrapping nimble fingers around the pot of coffee resting on his right. His gaze flitted to Nasira’s right hand side and she glanced down at a small ceramic coffee cup. Lifting it off the table, she turned and held it out to her brother wordlessly.

“Not that - too small,” Jafar muttered, voice a little raspy, before pointing to a space beyond Nasira’s elbow: “There’s another one behind you - there. Beside the books on diplomacy.” 

Nasira frowned, whirling around. She saw no other cups than this, unless she counted the vacant cabernet chalice sitting in the shadows of some texts. It was certainly much larger than the cup she still held. Understanding began to etch at her. Nasira turned to her brother incredulously. 

“This is a wine glass.” 

Jafar had the audacity to give her a look as if she just told him the deserts were made of sand. 

“Wonderful observation,” he drawled out before gesturing at the cup Nasira still held: “They keep bringing up tiny little teacups so unless you'd like to trouble yourself with finding me a flagon, ‘Sira, that’ll have to do.”

Nasira blinked at her brother for moment before reluctantly passing it to him. She almost didn’t catch the small ‘thank you’ as Jafar wasted no time in filling its depths with the rich black liquid. 

There was no sugar, no milk. Just… bean water in a ridiculously formal glassware, Nasira thought. She couldn’t help but stare as Jafar brought it to his lips and practically chugged the entirety in one go before setting the wine glass down almost in an aristocratic way, completely unfazed. Looking up, Jafar eventually caught her gaze.

“What?”

Nasira didn’t even know what to say. But she couldn’t just let him get away with  _ that _ . 

_ “What?” _ she choked out, eyes wide: “Don’t pretend as if that was a normal thing to do.”

Jafar leaned back and let his shoulders raise and fall in a curt shrug.

“If it bothers you so much, I’ll have them bring tea cups the size of goblets next time.”

“I don’t mean that,” Nasira replied - glancing at him pointedly. She sighed when he only raised an eyebrow in confusion: “Jaffy, when did you fall asleep last night?” 

At those words, Jafar stilled and Nasira was met with a look one would find in an animal uncertain of fight or flight. She didn’t know whether she needed to laugh or cry at this point, but decided to try again.

“Alright - let me rephrase; did you even sleep last night?”

Jafar grimaced at Nasira’s scrutinizing gaze in a way that made the hollows of his cheeks sharpen further. 

“A little - sure. Enough to get by, I suppose. Look, ‘Sira - don’t worry about it. I’ve a meeting with some ambassadors from Quataru in a day to discuss ‘terms’ or whatever words they have for incessant propositioning… And still quite a lot to go over with the council and court on trade allegations this afternoon. So please, for the love of-”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Nasira could nearly see his hackles rise at the interruption. Ignoring the glare that could’ve bore a hole through her skull, she continued:

“Oh that’s right - you  _ don’t _ , brother. I get that you have a plan and all to ‘raise Agrabah to its former glory’ and ‘gain power over every inch east from here to the edge of the world’ but there’s no glory or gain in dying of starvation before any of that!”

Jafar bristled and Nasira mentally prepared herself for whatever blow he’s preparing to return. She wouldn’t back down, though; for it was all true. 

But what she didn’t expect was for her brother to dash his gaze across the room; heaving himself back against the couch in pure irritation. Jafar swiped a hand furiously through the air to accentuate the bitterness in his next words.

“The plan’s done. Pulverized and scattered to the wind,” he gritted out: “Our half-wit of a Sultan made sure of that when he accepted Quataru’s proposal for union by marriage.”

Nasira froze. She was expecting anything except for  _ that _ . 

“What do you mean? How is the wedding a problem now? Didn’t you say it we would even be given a quarter of territory on their mineral excavations by matrimonial decrees?”

“ _ Agrabah’s _ matrimonial decrees.” He bit out. Nasira’s stomach clenched in dread. Jafar continued, his voice hovering just above being complete monotone: “With a lineage older than any of the Cardinal Kingdoms, Quataru has slight variations in their laws.”

He watched as Nasira’s breath hitched in her throat - an unspoken question hanging in a moment of stifling silence. 

“I checked through all of them on unions by marriage and more, sweet sister. They’re, thankfully, not in direct contradiction to our own.” Jafar supplied immediately. 

Nasira let out a sigh of relief. She had read enough books of history to know the only possible outcome for that; years of negotiations and optimisation. 

Her brother continued, his voice dropping a pitch lower to something just short of regret: 

“Which was why I left it at that. There wasn’t anything to catch, and they had nothing to hide. The Sultan will have his Sultana - and we’ll have a chunk of their quarries like you said.”

Nasira waited for his next words. She watched as her brother stopped, rubbed a hand down his face and let out a deep sigh. 

“Except I completely forgot about the Codex.” Jafar hissed out with inhuman vehemence: “Yes - that centuries-old opus; covering all laws shared amongst the kingdoms, as you know. Any addition of or changes to a law - unions by marriage, for instance - must be sent out immediately in a day’s time to rulers absent during the change....”

“...With a maximum of one ruler from the five being absent.” Nasira breathed - counting them out in her head. Dhamisk, Fortiva, Khaldor, Quataru and Agrabah were all the kingdoms that have pledged their history to the Codex of the Cardinals; despite Quataru exempting itself from being called a Cardinal Kingdom. Nasira felt herself pale visibly as her mind groveled for connections: “So they made a change to the matrimonial decrees without Agrabah? Before the wedding could take place?” 

“Yes and no. It’s their way of- oh forget it. It’s best if you just read it yourself.”

Plucking a crinkled envelope from under a pile of papers, he held it out to Nasira. A bronze seal of the Quataru royalty portraying a snarling tiger stared up at her wholly from the already opened envelope. 

Taking it from him, she watched as her brother morosely let his head fall against the back of the couch before pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. Long fingers ran up and through his hair as he moaned in surrender. With his back arched, Nasira thought it all a bit melodramatic - even for him. 

In any case, she took out the piece of paper folded in half and unfurled it; her eyes immediately captured by the intricate font on the page.

_ In content to the Keeper of the Carmine Channel, Grand Vizier of Agrabah, Jafar Asmier - His Majesty of Quataru, the Last Perennial and Iden of the Earth, Shah Turan Daivari would like to primarily express his most esteemed gratitude and honor of joining in the history of Agrabah through such joy as that of marriage. Indeed, the union of Agrabah and Quataru shall, without doubt, bring the greatest prosperity possible for countless legacies to come. But to do so, it is first necessary - as leaders of kingdoms - to navigate and surmount the tension which presents itself in our past.  _

_ Upon considering events of discord due to matters including Agrabah’s abrupt annexations of trade routes and that of Courica, changes have been made to the Codex of the Cardinals concerning matrimonial decrees between kingdoms. Although the law that the kingdom for which the ruler is representative of will still receive a sum of a territorial investment from his queen’s still stand, an addition has been implemented on C.45 ~ P.567:  _

_ “A union by marriage between kingdoms shall ensure that no kingdom within the union may otherwise annex, influence or threaten any of the other’s pre-existing trade routes, posts, villages, cities or establishments of territorial, resource and monumental purpose by militaristic means. Such a policy should remain until the death of one to which the union is joined by.” _

_ As it is vital to partner all decrees with a punishment should it be broken, it is here on C.46 ~ P.568 for which one will be introduced: _

_ “In the event of a violation to decree C.45, a declaration of war on the perpetuating kingdom will be expended immediately by all other kingdoms presiding under the Codex; to which any rivalry would be put aside until the perpetuator should be pulled from power and all transgressions are repaid in full.” _

_ In light of these changes ordered by a congregation of the ruler of the Cardinal Kingdoms and Quataru, we are sending our notice many days ahead of the ceremony to ensure the awareness of conduct. Should there be any concerns, ambassadors of Quataru will arrive with the signed Codex itself for affirmation and to further answer any surfacing inquiries - half a fortnight after the wedding. _

_ ~ The Brethren of the Codex of the Cardinals _

_ Ordered by Shah Turan Daivari of Quataru _

_ Sultan Fahim Rahal of Khaldor ~ Sultan Saunder Masih of Dhamisk ~ Sultan Balendin Nahas of Fortiva _

Nasira blinked - her gaze tracing the last words on the page over and over again. She flipped the paper over. Nothing. Opening the envelope which had fallen in her lap, she stared into its absolute emptiness in disbelief. 

“That’s it?” Nasira heard herself ask. 

“That’s it.” Her brother returned.

She was shocked - more so with the nerve of the person who had conjured this plan; and those that agreed it should be done. The event with Courica had happened nearly a year ago, and when Quataru had proposed a union by marriage in half that time, it was evidently out of fear. Agrabah’s army stood at three hundred thousand, then - though it’s likely a slightly higher number exists now with the profits rolling in from Courica. By securing an alliance by marriage, it’ll be very unlikely for relations between Quataru and Agrabah to ever escalate as far as war. 

Not that Nasira believed her brother recoiled at the prospect of war. Courica happened to be a shining example of that. But now he wanted Quataru and Nasira could see it. Jafar hungered for their wealth; their land; the ancient seat of the Perennials that ruled over soils rich with treasures of the earth: gold, rubies, emeralds and sapphires. But now the unlikely seemed impossible with this secret signing of the Codex. If he were to lay stand a single soldier to their posts, Agrabah would instantaneously be swung into bloodshed against four major kingdoms; a situation that will stand, it seems, until the end of the union. However long that may be...

A sudden thought struck her. 

“Jaffy -” she called. Her brother lifted his hands to glance at her with a set of tired eyes. Nasira continued: “When did you receive this?”

“Yesterday - around twilight.”

Nasira’s brows furrowed in outrage: “ _ What?!  _ Then they’re in stark violation of the Codex themselves! Changes to a law must be sent out within a day of-”

“Yes. ‘ _ Sent out’.  _ Not ‘ _ received’ _ .” He growled - low and guttural: “And they did just that; except it’s not as if you can’t, say, delay a message by a few days until a certain wedding has taken place and nothing else could be done.”

Nasira’s shoulders fell at that. So this was it. She watched as Jafar tried to sit up a little - yet only managed to let out a sigh; anger and devastation plain on his face.

The entire situation was practically the bane of his plans, she’ll admit - but it could have been worse overall. The newly instituted law, however vicious the method of enforcing it , wasn’t that unreasonable of a request, she decided. 

Stacking the letter atop the envelope, she handed it back to him. He took it, fingers folding it in half; his expression almost mournful. 

“So that’s why you look like someone dragged you from a grave, huh?” she spoke, tone light. 

Jafar merely shrugged.

“Honestly, I’ll rather that was the case than this.”

“Oh please, spare me the theatrics. Do yourself a favor and go eat something. If you died on this table and left me to figure this all out by myself, what good would that do?” she countered. 

“Well, if we were still affiliated to Quataru by trade, there wouldn’t have been a need for  _ any _ of this,” he snarled back, gesturing at the landscape of papers between them: “Given - maximum - a year and I could’ve had all their industries under our banners; cut off their trade routes; starved them of resources - you know;  _ the plan. _ But no; instead I’m the one starving, we gave that buffoon a wife and the world laughs on. And all for what? A few mines; when we could have had an entire  _ kingdom _ .”

At his last words, Jafar pushed himself up from the couch. She watched him take a step before he paused and braced an arm against the table. Nasira’s worries heightened internally - wondering at how long he’s been sitting there that he needed to catch his breath at getting up. 

“Where are you going?” she asked instead, bringing herself to stand with him. 

“Wherever the food is,” he groaned before lifting a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Straightening his collar and fixing the buttons on his shirt, Jafar managed to make himself look a little less like he had neglected all needs of the human body for hours: “I still have some time before meeting with the court so I’ll just have someone bring something up. Oh goodness… Then there’s the council. I’m sure this will be a fun development to explain.”

Having nothing else to do with the paperwork before her, Nasira decided to go with Jafar - and maybe keep him from drowning in this newfound pool of despair. 

“We have peace, Jaffy. No matter what, it could have been worse,” Nasira stated as they left the shelves of manuscripts behind them - footsteps now clipping down the main corridors. “What they would most like now is to simply keep our military advancements in check. Out of unease or whatever it may be; at least peace is promised, right?” 

Jafar scoffed. “ Oh please. Had  _ peace _ ever dissuaded anyone from the path of conquest, sweet sister? They would rip us apart all the same and scatter our remains to the wind if they were able. There’s few things left to do now…”

Nasira whipped her head to her brother at the abrupt change in his tone. From a voice brewing of storm, he had dipped to a range she knew he reserved for rare ponderings of drastic means. Yet what loophole was there to find in a way of annexing Quataru yet keeping every other Sultan from Fortiva to Khaldor at bay? Nasira couldn’t believe such a complicated matter was able to arise from just a marriage. And the only way to disentangle any of it was, most simply, with… 

Nasira’s heart did a somersault in her throat. Jaffy was ruthless at times, but there’s no way he could be considering it. The question flew from Nasira’s mouth before she could contemplate its absurdity:

“Brother; please -  _ please  _ don’t tell me you’re thinking of regicide.” 

Jafar’s eyes widened at her, his steps slowing significantly before the smile on his face erupted into laughter. It wasn’t particularly as loud as it was clear, infectious and perhaps just a bit disquieting; no, not insanity, Nasira told herself - he just hadn’t slept.

“What? Oh no,” Jafar chuckled, drawing a hand through his hair. They were nearing the suite to the Court of Law. “Unless you think that’s a good idea. Do you think that’s a good idea?”

_ He just hadn’t slept. He just hadn’t slept. He just hadn’t slept... _

“Jaffy…I am seconds away from cancelling all your meetings for the day,” Nasira gritted out. 

“Right, right. Of course not,” she heard him say as they rounded the corner; even as a smirk still tugged at his lips: ''no - I was going to say double the fortifications on our artillery units; establish several more legions; building mercenaries and opportunities for scholars moving into the army; all that you can help with.”

They stopped upon reaching the familiar gilded archway that extended into a room with floors of polished marble. Symmetrical pillars of quartz upheld a domed ceiling adorned with mosaics. A set of stairs on either side led to an overhang that opened into an alcove of windows that let rays of sunlight brush mystically onto a long, oblong table of walnut wood. The seat of the Grand Vizier at the end of it; more intricately carved than the rest. 

Yet she was bothered by none of the mystic grandiosity to the Court of Law. No matter how beautiful, it was just a room to house some persons that ran affairs across the kingdom. The person who ran it - Nasira had already fixed her gaze on; almost in calculation. Jafar, in turn, gave her a most invested look - one that made Nasira believe he would get what he wanted. And right now, he wanted an army.

“Give me a number.” She directed - not as if knowing mattered very much at this point for her.

“At the minimum? Four hundred thousand. At least a quarter cavalry and half on foot. As for the rest - what do you think about elephants, ‘Sira?”

Nasira let out a puff of air and decided not to dignify that with a response. 

“Four hundred thousand,” she murmured instead: “You do know that’s nearly twice the size of Dhamisk and Fortiva  _ combined _ ….Right?”

Jafar brows furrowed even as a small smirk danced on expression; a look given as if Nasira had just told a not so funny joke: “And not nearly enough - should Khaldor and their allies become a concern, sweet sister.”

“Jaffy - are you suggesting war?” The words poured from her lips; even if it was hushed. Jafar seemed to be taken aback. But Nasira wasn’t stupid, and honestly wouldn’t hold it above him for it to be a grand act. 

“No, no - as per your wish; only guarding against it,” he actually  _ gasped _ back. When Nasira’s gaze did not falter, he sighed - the theatrics dropping: “Although conquest will be crucial eventually - should we want to advance Agrabah. There is only one way and that is up - as it was in the case of Courica. Though I would tell you first, of course - ‘Sira.”

Nasira chuckled lightly: “So you won’t go declaring wars behind my back?”

“You know as Grand Vizier, I can’t exactly do so by law even if I wanted to,” he smiled - in that all-innocence way: “That’s for the Sultan.”

Nasira internally scoffed. His Majesty had decided to take a week away from Agrabah to visit Maarika with the Sultana after the wedding. The country - and all its affairs - rested, as always, on their shoulders. Not that Nasira nor her brother could be bothered being upset by it, really; she’s come to expect it from a “ruler” such as Osmund. 

“Anyway...” her brother continued, eyes flitting from her to the door. 

Nasira understood. She wondered for a moment if there was anything else she needed to let him know. There always was.

“Right.” Nasira added: “Don’t forget to eat something - and sleep. Alright?”

Jafar’s smile to her was genuine. A little too genuine, she thought. Yet all the same, he nodded to her in understanding.

“ ‘Course,” he replied, smile turning into a smirk as he turned away from her and strode away. But not before tossing a few words behind him, waving a hand dismissively: “Don’t worry about me, ‘Sira. You’re busy enough as it is on your own.”

She huffed - but he was right. There were more than a handful of problems to address with her newest project; with finding better qualified architects an immediate must - for the construction of an aqueduct isn’t a common endeavor and, thus, experienced workers in the field have become as rare as can be. Paperwork for clearance of land, funding and plans for construction are just some tasks for which Nasira must manage. 

Yet she would manage it - and willingly too; were her thoughts as Nasira twisted around the corner. Her motivations were clear enough and never far. It was for the people, of course. And Agrabah. Well - one and the same; the people of Agrabah.

A scribe with an armful of papers and books - donned in clothing that labelled him one of Jaffy’s court - passed by her; evidently on his way to find her brother about the upcoming meeting. She acknowledged his polite nod as he swept by with one of her own. Her mind shifted to her brother at the brief encounter.

Nasira knew enough about Jafar’s motivations. Agrabah Ascendant - him; being crowned the Herald of the Halcyon… And perhaps herself by his side. Her brother always wanted respect and glory by whatever means… For Agrabah, of course. He wanted the world to follow Agrabah’s laws; Agrabah’s history; Agrabah’s culture - so conquest became vital.

But he’s told her that it wasn’t the power he chased after as much as what that power could bring to the kingdom; could do  _ for _ the kingdom. Nasira believed him; how could she not? Agrabah flourished. The people were fairly taxed, fed, given opportunities for education and apprenticeship . With Jaffy’s militaristic investments, there hasn’t been a single brigand foolhardy enough to touch their trade routes or couriers under Agrabah’s flag in the past half a decade. Neighboring kingdoms held them in both respect and fear… So why is it that Nasira felt, well, empty?

No - perhaps not empty. Love can keep anyone fulfilled and Nasira loved. She loved her position in the Court of Grace. She loved the results of her work. She loved her brother. So restlessness, maybe? Yes - that was it. Every project, every discussion left her tasting of being caged. 

But there wasn’t ever a discernible reason every time she tried for another analysis. So she left it at that. With the echo of her heels bouncing through the halls, she at least hoped that whatever it was, it would keep itself confined to the walls of her mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry if there are any typos/grammatical or sentence-structure related errors that interrupt fluency! I'll be editing this when I get back from camp after the week but I did wanna post this now and throw the general idea in before my sanity boils on the bonfire that is this chapter lolz
> 
> Fun fact, I guess: The beginning of the scene w/an out-of-batteries Jaffy is inspired by last year...Summer of gr.10...When I:  
> -Decided last minute that I wanted to take all five months of grade 11 biology condensed between July 31 and Aug. 25.  
> -And mentally combusted.


	4. Decrees, Disagreements and Distrust

Life with the Sultan was breezy. Carefree and relaxing, so Sadira thought; and perhaps much better than she was expecting. 

Osmund was kind and honorable; almost to a fault. Tolerance, compassion and affection flowed through him as easily as the blood in his veins. He had her every need taken care of since the ceremony. Everything from entertainment to food and drink were set for Sadira by the Sultan as if she had always been a part of Agrabah’s palace life. 

His kindness only doubled when they departed for Maarika. She had spent the first day fishing with him in the Carmine Channel and watched as he commanded the crew manning the vessels they brought to salt half of all the lines they brought up while keeping only as much as they needed for dinner. When this was done and they have arrived in the ports of Maarika, the salted fish were then distributed to feed the lesser families of the city under her husband’s orders. 

The next few days had only filled her with gradually greater respect for Osmund. Arm in arm, she would often be pulled to a stop so that he might pass some coins into the hands of a beggar. The Sultan also found the children of the street delightful; drawing them up and letting them sit around him as he wove elaborate stories of magic and princes. All of it, admittedly, made Sadira smile.

No good deed was too difficult for him to carry out. No request too absurd to be fulfilled. Even in cases where judgment had to be passed (such as when Sadira spotted a pick-pocket and alerted him), Osmund was considerably lenient (he was told to return the possessions and fined a meal’s amount). When they did return to Agrabah, Sadira believed she understood the Sultan. 

Yet despite being again and again present to his general compassion of all, Sadira could not help but be consistently surprised. The existence of a charitable ruler to the degree of the Sultan Osmund was rare. However pleasant his personality proved to be, Sadira also found such kindness a little… unnatural; like a three-humped camel. 

For the entire week, she couldn't tell what made her feel this way. That is, until their return to Agrabah and a scheduled council meeting with some attendees of Quataru. 

Days upon their arrival back, Sadira was informed of a meeting between the Sultan and his Grand Vizier in matters concerning the marriage laws. Nothing that she couldn’t handle, Sadira thought. In Quataru, she had been educated in history of millenia past all the way to present day. Her studies consisted of everything; the music, geography, art, philosophy, literature, politics and even a bit of mathematics. None of that ended upon stepping foot in Agrabah; now faced with new resources and practices. 

Spending much of her time in the Sultan’s office and immersing herself on another kingdom’s views on current political issues as well as their court system, Sadira found herself excited to apply the knowledge. Or at least see it work for herself. Yet as she passed the threshold to the chamber to the Council of the Crown, Sadira was hit with a sensation of almost something akin to dread. 

The ambassadors of Quataru - true to the courier’s words - came in a group of three. They were seated on the tall-backed mahogany bergeres. Even with the light from the windows spilling across the room, the many pillars cast a patch of shade across the trio. Raising to their feet when the Sultana and the Sultan arrived, Sadira’s eyes took in their most prominent features, and familiar, features. 

All three were about average height; though the one at the end of the table was slightly taller than the other two. The man closest to the head of the table and the Sultan’s seat bore a thick grey beard and emerald robes that accentuated his broad shoulders and barrel-like belly. The second in the middle held a square jaw, curly hair threatening to spill into arched eyes and a nimble figure. In comparison, he was dwarfed by the man at the end of the table in ways more than just height. A wicked scar stretched from the corner of his nose, across the edge of his lips and ended by curling itself beneath his chin. With a set of sharp, hawk-like features, a soldier’s physique and stocky build, he radiated an air that immediately set Sadira on edge.

The three stood on the other side of the oblong table, ordered from left to right. Qasim and Khalil were the names of the grey bearded and the curly haired one, respectively - so Sadira recalled. Yet she was sure that she’s never seen the last man with the scar before. 

She was swung away from their appearances when the Sultan began to greet each of them as jolly as ever. Even without knowing names, Sadira watched in awe as he almost had herself convinced that they were old friends meeting for the first time in many moons. Warm shakes of the hand and patting on the back were delivered as easily as the genuine smile ever-present on Osmund’s face. 

During the words of greeting, Sadira’s gaze swept across the room and came to a precise halt at the Grand Vizier. Wondering at how she had missed the man in such a minimally inhabited space, Sadira soon realized the reason why. Jafar had remained seated up until His Grace strode to the other side of the table and positioned himself to speak with the guests. 

He did move to stand now, though a bit languidly; bringing his lithe form up from the seat. It was the seat closest to the Sultan’s seat (which stood at the head of the oblong table), situated on the opposite side of the ambassadors. A seat adorned with carvings more intricate than the rest and a gilded frame just short of the Sultan’s. Her seat, she realized.

Sadira drew in a shallow breath as they all prepared to be seated once again. She felt the three ambassador’s gaze on her as the good graces fell silent and bodies were leveled to the table again. Sadira could feel her face flush, unbidden. The stares only grew, and all at once, she felt like a hare cornered by coyotes. Embarrassment became desperation for which the Sultana took on a defensive stubbornness. Standing before Jafar who had slid back down again, Sadira decided that it was now or never.

“Jafar,” she bit out, steadily: “You’re in my seat.”

The Grand Vizier’s eyes whirled to her figure above him. When his eyes fixed on Sadira’s, he rose immediately and pushed out the chair for her. A mixture of schooled surprise and sincere contrite played across his expression.

“Apologies, Your Grace,” he supplied a little too fast - moving to the other chair beside her and across from the curly-haired Khalil: “Force of habit.”

“It’s alright,” she said, folding her dress under her as she sat. Jafar, in turn, settled into the chair on her right.

A uniformed scribe stepped from one side of the room a moment later. A scroll was unraveled and he began to announce the purpose of the meeting and well as introduce the three ambassadors sitting before her. She was right in identifying the first two - being Qasim and Khalil - and found that the third man’s name was Bharadi. 

Yet apart from that, she was surprised to hear matters on changes to the Codex of the Cardinals from the scribe. From what she gathered, the ambassadors were here by the decrees of her father, the Shah Daivari, to answer questions on those changes. Sadira did not know nor was told what those changes were other than that they were made in light of the marriage. Once the final words were uttered, the scribe took the scroll and backed into the shadows again.

Before Sadira could decide what to ask, the one named Bharadi spoke.

“First things first then,” he began, spreading a gloved hand on the table and leaning against the back of his chair. His posture was relaxed, but his eyes - sharp as a hawk - sliced across the three of them before resting on Jafar: “Did you receive our letter?”

Sadira frowned, confused.

“Indeed,” the Grand Vizier answered: “Though I must say; it could’ve arrived much sooner.”

“The desert is not kind during this season, m’lord. We are as maddened by delays rooted in storms and droughts as you are.” Khalil smiled and shrugged without much care at Jafar. He smiled back as well, paired with a look that could’ve shattered steel.

“Naturally. Though it’s a shame that we were not informed before the wedding,” Jafar said, the look gone as fast as it arrived: “If we had known the Shah’s concerns, I could have sent forth a more insisting invitation to the ceremony. That is, to soothe all doubts long before they could fester.”

Sadira internally scoffed. It was common knowledge that her father was not one of the high guests in attendance at her wedding. Most claimed he was busy. Less claimed it was paranoia of assasination. Sadira knew better.

Khalil’s smile only grew wider; showing a row of teeth white as polished ivory. Bharadi’s expression barely changed saved for the narrowing of his eyes. Meanwhile, Qasim’s brows furrowed in surprise as his bearded mouth fell open to form cautious words.

“So you are alright with the changes to the codex made, m’lord?” he asked.

Sadira’s capacity for confusion had reached its peak. She cleared her throat.

“You keep speaking of the changes. What changes?” Sadira finally blurted out. She took a deep breath as she watched five pairs of eyes swivel to her.

“You do not know, Your Grace?” Bharadi muttered, incredulous. His eyes swiveled to the Sultan as he sat up taller in his chair: “Your Majesty, are you informed of the changes? Or the letter we sent to your Grand Vizier a week ago?”

Sadira watched as her husband’s eyes were brought together by bushy brows and his face contorted into confusion. He leaned forward, elbows now braced against the table and his eyes darting to the figure beside her.

“Jafar - what is he talking about?”

Yet before any answers could be made, Bharadi continued. His voice was now laden with barely concealed scorn directed at Jafar: “As expected. Never did tell anyone, I suppose. Pretty little thing like you holding power by keeping all sorts of secrets from your Sultan. Like a cobra hidden in the gardens, no?” 

The room fell into an absolute silence. Sadira turned and saw Jafar’s face drain of all emotion. He had angled his chin down in a way that was both elegant and polite, but his burning eyes and the small smile dancing on his lips spoke an entirely different story. It was not amusement as much as it was a promise of death. 

Qasim and Khalil did not share their companion’s fortitude; frozen in shock. Before an apology could be formed, though, Jafar let out a slight chuckle. Sadira was surprised at how real he was able to make it sound.

“You have quite an imagination, Bharadi,” Jafar smiled a smile of teeth. Sadira couldn’t help but notice his canines; so sharp that they were almost fang-like in their appearance. With words silkier than the fabric of her dress, he turned to the Sultan: “No, Your Majesty. I only received the letter yesterday thanks to the ‘delays’ Khalil so excused. As you were not present in council, I had planned to present its contents to you today.”

With that, Jafar reached into his jacket pocket and drew out an envelope which he passed, to Sadira’s surprise, towards herself. She took it from him and opened it - lifting the folded parchment out and bringing it to her eyes. Clearing her throat, she read it out loud for both herself and the Sultan. 

Her tone shifted as she voiced the decrees; from confusion to shock to, finally, uncomfort. When the last words were brought from the page, she stared at the written words for a moment longer before Jafar held out his hand in silent askance. Sadira handed it back to him after folding the paper and tucking it in the envelope. 

“Which brings us here.” Jafar stated while he inserted the note back into the folds of his jacket, his eyes locked on Bharadi. His voice, however, remained as light as ever: “Though I must say I am a little disappointed. Your great Shah Daivari sent you three here to display the diplomacy of a kingdom as old and grand as Quataru should. Maybe even clarifying any questions we may have on whatever you’ve done with the codex. Instead, you’ve chosen to give vague reasons to why such an important message was so delayed and accuse Agrabah of political corruption. Counting your insults or not, I’ll say this has been a  _ spectacular  _ failure on your part.”

Bharadi’s face had turned a deep crimson and if not for Khalil’s hand gripping at his arm, Sadira was sure that those fingers would have been wrapped around Jafar’s throat by now. Instead, his mouth opened and closed as he fought to piece together the words.

“I see. Clearly, what  _ our part _ is hasn’t been understood. To notify that Quataru will show no tolerance for pompous usurpers is the only reason why we’re here, m’lord.” His voice coming forth in a way meant to mock on the last word. “So; consider this visit not just a clarification but a warning as well.” Bharadi just short of bellowed - like a bull ready to charge. 

Sadira thought it frightening. Jafar, though, didn’t so much as blink. In fact, his smirk only grew wider and his eyes - colder.

“A warning? You’re in an inarticulate rage. It’s understandable but misplaced. You should probably just calm down,” Jafar stated matter-of-factly. Sadira watched as Bharadi’s face reached another shade of red.

“Calm down?” he growled through gritted teeth, “I don’t need to  _ calm down _ . I’m not angry.”

“Really? Your vocabulary’s been reduced to short outbursts, your face practically matches the carpet and either you’ve been bitten by a rabid dog or your hands have a mind of their own. If that isn’t anger, you should see a physician.”

“Jafar!” the Sultan snapped and Sadira flinched. It was the first time she had heard him raise his voice to such a degree. Jafar’s eyes darted to Osmund. The Sultan’s look was most severe - along with just one word to the Vizier: “Behave.”

Jafar dipped his head apologetically. Though the snicker he struggled to hide still remained, plain as day, on his lips. Sadira was suddenly aware of a smile tugging at the corner of her own as well. It was hard not to be surprised and harder yet - amused - as she watched the second-most powerful man in all of Agrabah use his wit to provoke in a way that was almost childlike.

Seeing no attempt to school his expression, the Sultan shot Jafar another disapproving look before turning back to the ambassadors.

“My sincere apologies on behalf of him, m’lords. Let us get on with the matters at hand, then.”

Bharadi’s simmering glower gradually shifted into a silent sneer at the Sultan’s words. Sadira traced his gaze and found that it has landed on Jafar. His smirk was gone now - replaced by an almost solemn air. A tension to his shoulders, fingers clutching at armrests and the gaze that was just short of a glare all offset the tight smile that he wore. It was, for Sadira, more than a little disconcerting.

The Sultan continued, finally shifting forward in his chair and spreading his hands on the table. His voice was gruff yet low; every word firm yet fair.

“We have decided that building stronger relations with other sovereignties are of the utmost priority to Agrabah. Starting with the esteemed nation of Quataru.” 

Sadira almost let out a sigh - seeing the tension dissolve into relief among the three ambassadors. Yet soon, curiosity and skepticism took hold.

“An agreeable idea indeed. How to begin, though…?” posed Khalil, his eyes flitting to Jafar in a way that reminded Sadira of a cottontail before a hungry coyote. Jafar, however, held no attention to him - his eyes seemingly fixated on something beyond. Sadira could practically see the gears turning behind those eyes; which only unglazed with a clearing of the throat from the Sultan.

“If it so suits the Shah...” he said, lightly thumbing at the brunette strands on his chin, “...we could arrange a meeting to discuss those precise measures. We’ll like to establish better trade relations among Quataru’s industry of jewellery and expand Agrabah’s supplies of fish, spices and wood works.It would be in both nation’s best interests to also polish up on such trade routes and lower both tensions and taxes in the process.”

Sadira didn’t hear what response the three were to supply next. Honestly, she couldn’t even remember if they had responded. But they must have. In any case, the source of her attention now was focused solely on the young man to her right - who looked like he wanted to toss himself from the balustrades above them. 

The Sultana didn’t even need to turn to feel how tense the Grand Vizier was. Jafar’s hand left hand was clasped so tight around the armrest, Sadira was surprised it hadn’t exploded into splinters. His jaw was taunt in a way that almost looked painful and his eyes were overshadowed by brows furrowed with restraint. Anger, uncomfort, stress and despair licked across his features; like smoke rising from a fire. 

Sometime in this exchange, Jafar did speak. What he spoke of did not match his feelings, she could tell. But such was the craft of a wordsmith. He supported the Sultan and hinted at the need for progression in the trades and militaristically powering the allied kingdoms. He skimmed over the subject of the Codex with nonchalance and (falsified, Sadira thought) grace. In the end, he even proposed strengthening relations to Quataru’s more ancient allies, starting with Shirabad. Sadira ears perked at the mentioning of her mother’s kingdom.

To all that, the attendees seemed content and the meeting was brought to a close. The scribe was called back and the recorded notes of the meeting were produced, signed and sealed by the Sultan. Tying the sheets with a ribbon of silk, he passed it to Khalil. With a promise to forward its contents to the Shah, the three took their leave silently. But not before a final word from Bharadi sucked the air from Sadira’s lungs.

He spoke in Itherian - Sadira noted; a higher form of dialect in the region reserved only to blood of royalty. He was not so fluent as herself, Sadira thought: likely learned it from a careless lady aunt or lord uncle and never got around to honing it. His pronunciation held a pitching tone to it that reminded her of a poorly tuned oud. 

But paired with his eyes heatedly trained at the Grand Vizier and the lowering of his voice as he leaned to the Sultan - the message was clear enough.

“I would not trust this one, Your Majesty. And if you are as wise as they say, you would not either.”

Sadira did not remember exactly what happened next nor what words were offered back to Bharadi by the Sultan. Only that the three ambassadors were - with all the charm Osmund had- ushered out the Council room to the chambers provided for them during their stay.

She, by some ungodly power, was only pulled to attention when Jafar sweeped by her right.

“Wait!” She called, for some reason. He froze - then turned. Sadira was met with utter confusion if not just a hint of annoyance. It flitted off just as fast though; leaving not a shadow behind.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

Sadira blinked. She knew what she had to ask. “Are you alright?”

He just short of scoffed back in Itherian: “Perfectly fine, Your Grace.”

Sadira winced. So he understood what Bharadi had said. Not that he didn’t see it coming. For even with the polished politeness dripping off his voice like honey, Sadira could tell Jafar was miffed. Yet even with all that, she couldn’t help but observe his fluency.

“You speak Itherian? I never took you for royalty.” she asked in genuine surprise.

“I’m not,” Jafar said - a little softer: “Learned it myself.”

Sadira bit her lip. So perhaps she had been wrong in her assumptions.

“Besides, it isn’t difficult - if even the most simple-minded of us could grasp it...” he continued, with a look towards the chair that Bharadi had once occupied. Sadira stifled a guffaw. 

“Well, alright. As long as you’re fine…”

“Never better,” Jafar replied with a small smile; strained though it was.

Sadira nodded, her mind wandering before drawing back to a sudden point she ought to ask about: “ Right - you spoke of obtaining a common partnership with Quataru and perhaps Shirabad in the trades and… militaristically? Have you some concept on the terms yet?”

She watched as his gaze furrowed a little before flitting to the ground - then back up at her. A ringed hand tapping absentmindedly at the back of his chair, Jafar replied, tone almost careful: 

“No. I did not know how they would respond to the offer; nor, specifically, if the Shah Daivari would approve. After the return trip, of course. I’m sure they’ll like to schedule a meeting to work through the finer details. I’ll likely be able to draw something up before then.”

Sadira nodded in agreement. Practical. She’ll give him that.

“I know my father,” the Sultana offered instead: “I believe that he would be interested in this arrangement; provided that the terms are detailed properly.”

“And they most certainly will be, Your Grace. I’m sure that there are plenty of routes and resources for which Agrabah can supply that will aid in strengthening this union. ” Jafar supplied - his voice terse. A look of both polite acknowledgement and protectiveness broke let itself loose in his tense posture and surveying gaze. 

As if that’ll keep Sadira from the affairs of a kingdom she’s now an emblem of.

“Really? Well, that does sound most interesting. I’ll like you to send me those terms when you’re done with them.”

The slight widening of his already big eyes was as close to horrified disbelief as Sadira thought Jafar could get. It was almost comical enough for Sadira to laugh - if that didn’t offset her words as a command.

“Your Grace, are you sure? I don’t see how it’ll be worth your time to-”

“No need to call me ‘Your Grace’, Jafar,” she cut him off: “ ‘Sadira’ would be much easier, don’t you think? As I said; I'd like to take a look at the terms after their drafting - in a day’s time; perhaps? You may pick the place where we can meet.”

Incredulous, infuriated, then… impressed? Sadira wasn’t sure what Jafar thought as she had already begun to turn. All she heard was the name of a location resonated.

“Palace library… Northwest hall.”

“Wonderful. The library it is, then. I’ll drop by later with the records of the meeting and stay should you need any help,” she tossed back, the click of her heels already fading against the polished sandstone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh! So sorry this took so long. School's started and my mental capacity is just going down the drain but I'll still try to publish as frequently as possible.  
> Anyway, what do you guys think? Feedback/comments always welcomed (also added chapter titles finally yayyy) ! Chapter 5 (titled ) pending!


	5. The Thief, The Captain and The Vizier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Soooo - this is really overdue but - hey! Quarantine has gotten me writing again (actually, this a global health pandemic has made me do a lot of really overdue stuff. Like learn how to fix a tire and read some books so kudos to that!).
> 
> But also stay safe, everyone; and here's a new chapter to jumpstart the plot. Things are finally gonna go a little faster.

Integrating himself into palace life wasn’t so hard. Merdon, besides other things, was a skilled actor.

Imitating the bowing of the head, following in the bustle of trays being shoved towards him and keeping his footsteps light and attitude mellow took him far. He was never suspected. Never stopped. Among his fellow servants, cooks, maids, and shoppers, he was invisible. Just another face in the crowd.

But that didn’t mean he didn’t have eyes for the other faces, and particularly the guards - whom he tried to avoid at all costs. As far as he knew, there were two that most stood out to him. Razoul - a big, burly man of immense strength - lieutenant to the captain of the palace security - Hakim.

Unmatched in strength was Razoul; though Merdon was most certainly not as fearful of him as he was of Hakim. Hakim was sharp; meticulous and seemed to know every nook and cranny of Agrabah. He patrolled the streets, maintained peace and every rascal Merdon had encountered causing trouble in his presence was apprehended in the most, iron-clad way as befitting their crime. Hakim, to Merdon, held every sense of the word inevitable for all criminals except one.

By this, Merdon meant the Grand Vizier, of course. He had nearly encountered the parrot-owning man when rounding a corner some days prior; then saw him consult with the Sultan himself after a meeting. Even in the brief interaction that followed, Merdon was most surprised by how close the two appeared to be and the fondness the Sultan had for Vizier. The way that the Vizier (Merdon still had not known his name) beamed when speaking to the Sultan of his accomplishments and suggestions gave him the impression of close-to-fatherly love. 

Merdon had found that the Vizier really wasn’t as frightening as he’s been told by whispers on the street - nor that old. Saved for the occasional ill-concealed dark circle beneath his eyes, the Vizier was actually quite young; two or three years younger than himself, even. Merdon also found that rumors the Vizier had an army under his rule and the Sultan approving his every order were just that; rumors. In fact, the Grand Vizier really didn’t spend his days being so devious; mostly he just attended meetings and did paperwork. Merdon even found him a little boring at times.

But now, as he’s loading bales of hay for the stable horses, he found that he had to continually remind himself to appear less like a gawking buffoon and more so a dutiful servant; for the Vizier was fighting the captain of the Royal Guard in the barrack courtyard.

Hakim wielded an Egyptian khopesh - a broad but beautiful piece of curved steel that threw the sunlight back when swung; clearly a symbol of military status. The Vizier’s weapon was simpler but wicked; a straight, double-edged iron falchion that hissed through the air with every strike. Merdon tried not to cheer as the two men danced around each other nimbly but with deadly vivacity; sidestepping and parrying to test each other's defenses. He knew that it was Hakim who was training the Vizier, but if he had not so overheard, their actions would not have differentiated who was the teacher. 

And then it became clear. Hakim lifted his khopesh’s flat side to meet the edge of the falchion. With a flick of the wrist, deflected the iron. The Vizier - suddenly realizing that he was now within the captain’s striking distance - tried to put some space between them; but not before the vambrace of Hakim slammed into his chest. Merdon found it a wonder that he didn’t fall and managed to save his footing with a short stumble.

“What are you doing?” Hakim barked in a way that made Merdon both physically and mentally flinch. 

“What?” the Vizier frowned, almost petulantly, wiping the back of a hand across his brows.

“You’re stiff as a pillar. Don’t just slice around with the blade in your hand, use the body behind that blade. Loosen it up, and don’t just assume your opponent would reject spontaneity. Again.”

Merdon watched out of the corner of his eye as the Vizier pushed his shoulders back and took his stance; lower, this time. He swung to meet Hakim’s stride before dancing to the side and attempted to strike at the torso. Ducking beneath the swing, the captain turned and hooked the khopesh onto the length of the falchion, and in a movement, Merdon’s vision failed to perceive, he twisted the blade from the Vizier’s grip - throwing it five feet behind them. 

But before a word of the Vizier’s could escape, Hakim dropped his weapon as well and stepped back. 

“Enough, Jafar. You’re focusing way too much on finding a routine that’ll work on everyone; stop that.”

Jafar - Merdon felt a sense of triumph as if having solved a bothersome riddle - his name is Jafar. 

“And start doing what?” he huffed, likely miffed at the lack of a sword in his hand.

“Learning to improvise a little.” stated the captain: “You have to take the tricks and skills of combat and devise your own solution on the spot. Basically the physical form of your verbal, smartass remarks.”

Merdon had to stifle a chuckle as he walked past them, setting down another bale. Jafar cocked his head to the side. His brows furrowed in thought. The Vizier was still for a moment, before shrugging.

“Alright.”

Hakim’s lip quirked upwards in a challenge. But the ghost of the smile faded as soon as Jafar procured two, slim throwing knives from the belt around his thigh and, in one fluid motion, sent them shooting towards him. Narrowly avoiding a stab to the liver and a shattered collarbone, Hakim just barely had time to notice Jafar closing the space between them to sweep his legs from underneath him.

Merdon had stopped pretending apathy the moment Hakim leaped to the side and grabbed the Vizier’s collar. Jafar, in response, placed a knee into Hakim’s stomach; eliciting a grunt from the captain and almost succeeded in escaping the grip. But Hakim was certainly larger than Jafar; who easily threw him to the ground with a well-placed thrust of a forearm. Jafar fell none-too-gently as Hakim bent over to catch his breath. 

“Not bad,” he choked out, before straightening and lending the Vizier a hand. Jafar took it and stood, dusting himself off and shooting a grin at Hakim - who continued:  
“But by Allah - what did I say about throwing knives?”

Jafar laughed - a soft chortle meant to disarm: “But you admit that I’m good.”

“And that’s the problem.” he shot back, running a hand through curly hair: “You could have put me in the infirmary for a week.” 

“I apologize, then.” Jafar smiled sheepishly, as he walked quite close to where Merdon was situated. Shifting through a pile of his robes atop a weapons rack, he procured a kerchief to dab at his forehead before calling back: “Though you should be honored I need to break the rules to beat you, Hakim.”

“You didn’t beat me.” Hakim goaded.

“But I did try - and you were able to dodge them.” Jafar shrugged in a charming way. Hakim pursed his lips. Merdon had begun walking away, his task for the bales finished when he heard the captain’s response:  
“With admitted difficulty. No more knives next time in working hand-to-hand combat. I’m not about to find out how good you are by losing an eye.”

Merdon smiled to himself at hearing that. It was really odd to him how the captain had so evidently a soft spot for the Vizier; which made Merdon wonder at their history. Jafar - the name still felt strange to him - had been central to the fall of at least two kingdoms in the last decade and, if the words he had heard repeated his entire life were to be believed, the blood of more than a few radical deviants were on his hands. Merdon had no doubt Hakim knew of such atrocities, yet it seems as if his oath to protect the innocent and uphold the honor of Agrabah ends just about with the Vizier. 

Merdon contemplated this silently as he began to wonder - not for the first time - at the prospects of remaining in the palace for another week or so. Just a few more days; before Morgiana and her assemblage of lil thieves come searching for him. Merdon smiled and looked around the hall he had wandered into in his reverie. It was one of the minor passages that led to the throne room. Ornate carvings etched into polished sandstone and embroidered-everything from tapestries to carpets adorned the length of the passage wider than any bazaars Merdon has seen. 

He stilled and frowned; suddenly filled with an unspeakable irritation. The richness of the palace - all its luxury - will and could never be experienced by anyone beyond its walls. The lil ones, Morgiana, every single man, woman and child he had been forced to integrate into his life will never have this life. An unfamiliar wave of anger and disgust rolled up his spine at the thought - and he shuddered at this new world he had unwittingly stepped into; a world of glory and pampering obtained by the robbing of his old one. 

Defiance; he felt it now. Along with the urge to laugh; Merdon wondered if such a feeling was the common denominator of sentiments in all of Jafar’s enemies till their final breaths. Nevermind that - he was born into a thief’s profession. So Merdon decided that - before he left this domain for good - he was going to rob the Grand Vizier.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Omgg this actually turned into a novel and I literally dunno what to feel about it? But that it's happening?!?? XD
> 
> If ya still reading this - thank you! I totally get that this isn't the most populated fandom but I just see so much potential in the characters and, honestly, am just having some fun finding personalities and crafting stories for them, ya? 
> 
> Anyway - comments/suggestions really, really would help me write better/more (provided that you guys wanna see more, of course). Especially being a pretty new creator to AO3 with a line of doubts so long I could wear them as a scarf lolz (probs why I haven't posted Chapt. 2 yet even though it's pretty much done >.<)...  
> Thanks again, dear readers - and let's see where this goes!


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